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•• 


TAR  FLAT 

'Twas  a  freeman  born  that  "Rounded  the  Horn," 

In  the  crisp  days  of  "Forty-nine:" 
"Twas  muscle  and  nerve,  and  never  a  swerve 

From  the  course  of  the  law  Divine; 
There  were  bright  days,  and  drear,  and  happ'n- 
ings  queer, 

But  soon  came  the  pivotal  time; 
The  future  was  told  in  millions  in  gold, 

And  customs  from  every  clime! 

In  the  days  of  old;  in  the  days  of  gold, 

When  old  San  Francisco  was  young, 
The  north-end  of  town  had  men  of  renown  — 

And  seekers  of  fortune  among! 
But  soon  came  a  day  when  commerce  hold  sway. 

When  builders  of  Empire  should  meet 
Near  the  forge  fire's  glow,  and  the  shipwright'* 
blow  — 

On  the  south-side  of  Market  Street! 

The  workers  there  dwelt,  and  frequently  knr-lt 

At  the  shrine  of  the  mirthful  —  or  saint  — 
And  never  a  lad,  nor  lassie  so  bad 

Who'd  voice  e'er  a  scandalous  plarnt! 
Such  masters  as  Drew  —  and  polished  Lunt,   too, 

In    Terpsichore    Art   well    skilled, 
'Neath  the  gas  jets'  glow  kipped  th-  supple  toe, 

Till  Youth  was  delightfully  drilled! 

A  polyglot  bunch,  with  prayer  or  punch, 

Yet,  loyal  e'er  lassie  and  swain 
As  ever  a  knight  of  royalty,  quite, 

Or  a  prince  in  the  priestly  train! 
Vernacular  odd  ("aw  Cholly  by  gawd 

Who's  the  guy  with  the  skirt  over  there? 
Naw,  shucks  yer  ain't  on;  he's  daft  shure's  yer 
bawn; 

He's  givin'  'er  pufTs  uv  hot  air!") 

With  a  flow  of  gocd  will,  on  Rincon  Hill 

The  Money  Kings  lavished  their  fare, 
A  nd  never  a  f  rown  —  on  that  end  of  town 

That  brought  in  the  shekels  to  spare! 
Exclusive    South   Park,   arsoiher  lone   spark 

To  illume  the  Money  Kirgs'  joy, 
Stretched  forth  the  "glad  hand"  to  the  workers' 
band; 

And  der.r  Mrs.  Kelly's  own  boy! 


. 

Oh,  ye  saints  look  down  on  this  now  made  town, 

And  tell  me,  pray,  which  way  to  go; 
The  shore-line's  deranged,  and  every  thing's 
changed, 

And,  never  a  corner  I  know! 
Yet,  while  in  the  fray  it  cheers  me  to  say, 

"All  hail  to  the  prince  or  the  brat, 
Who  claimed  as  his  own,  this  water-front  zone, 

And  gave  it  its  title— Tar  Flat!" 

The  title  is  good:     'Tis  well  understood 

That  clipper  ships  staunch,  in  their  day, 
Hove  to,  and  so,  let  the  big  anchors  go 

In  the  south-end  turn  of  the  bay! 
And  'twas  there  Jack  Tar  off  voyage    from  afar, 

Found  a  relished  haven  of  rest, 
And  the  dance  hall  girl  to  mix  in  the  whirl — 

Dolled  up  for  a  sweetheart  quest! 

On  the  Tar  Flat  land  rose  a  castle  grand, 

Whose  fare  to  the  Jack  Tar  was  free, 
Till  health  should  prevail  and  prompt  him  to  sail 

To  the  port  of  a  foreign  sea. 
And    ornate — not    marred — were    many    things 
tarred, 

The  products  in  iron  and  steel, 
And  the  shrouds  ar.d  stays,  and  marline  relays, 

And  the  seams  from  bulwark  to  keel! 

'Twas  a  busy  zone;  the  very  back-bone 

Of  commerce  and  mercantile  trend, 
And  that  tarry  spot,  with  brains  and  brawn 
wrought 

Our  proud  ship  of  state  in  the  end! 
And  the  foundry  knew  Peter  Donahue, 

And  Hinckley,  and  Spires,  and  Hayes, 
Coffey,  Risdon,  Scott  and  Prescott  who  wrought 

With  a  master-hand  in  those  days. 

But  the  ships  with  sails,  that  weathered   the  gales, 

By  the  nerve  of  the  Jolly  Tar, 
Are  things  of  the  past,  and  steamers  at  last 

Are  ploughing  their  way  o'er  the  bar! 
Now,  eveiything's  new,  and  the  land-marks  fevr, 

Where  princes  or  artisans  sat; 
But  never  a  frown  nor  blush  shall  I  own 

For  mem'ries  of  dear  old  Tar  Flat! 

(Bard  of  Tar  Flat.) 


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THE  OLD  DAYS  AND  THE  NEW  WAYS 


I  do  not  care  to  go  to  church 

In  all  the  grand  new-fangled  ways; 
But  mem'ry's  record  oft  I  search 

For  grandpa's  good  o!d-fashion'd  days, 
When  parsons  plough'd  and  reap'd  the  grain, 

As  well  as  preach'd  the  word  of  God, 
And  trudged  through  snow  or  drenching  rain 

To  lay  some  sinner  'neath  the  sod. 
I  well  remember  that  sweet  wife 

Of  our  dear  parson,  don't  you  know, 
Who  brought  the  sunshine  to  a  life 

Of  some  poor  cuss  engulf 'd,  in  woe! 
From  early  morn  till  late  at  night 

She  spun  the  yarn  and  mix'd  the  doughs, 
And  by  the  candles'  yellow  light 

Darn'd  socks  and  made  the  home-spun  clothes. 
The  fiddle,  flute,  and  clarinet, 

The  cello  and  the  slide  trombone, 
With  voices  blent  made  you  forget 

You  had  an  earthly  cause  to  moan; 
Ay,  when  the  congregation  rose 

And  with  the  instruments  pitch'd  in, 
In  pious  manner  to  dispose 

Of  some  old  continental  hymn, 
Of  all  the  good  stored  in  your  soul 

There  warn't  a  whit  left  slumb'rin'  there; 
But  o'er  your  features  mildly  stole 

A  look  bereft  of  worldly  care. 
The  horses  champ'd  their  oats  at  rest, 

Till  hitchin'-up-time  well  began, 
Then,  togg'd  out  in  your  Sunday  best 

You  rode  home  with  your  Mary  Ann. 
But  times  are  changed  since  then,  old  boy, 

And  somehow  I  jest  sort  o'  feel 
"Ye  old-time  hymn"  lacks  pious  joy 

With  quartette  choir  and  organ  zeal. 
Perch'd  on  a  bench  you'll  see  a  dude, 

Who,  with  his  feet  some  pedals  plays, 
Then  with  a  flourish  call'd  prelude, 

His  fingers  trips  the  keyboards'  ways! 


The  invocation  scarcely  o'er, 

That  organist  spiels  off  a  ral.; 
The  fair  soprano  then  doth  soar, 

And  forth  she  squeaks  a  "come  down  Sal": 
Some  more  gymnastics  with  the  keys — 

Respite  ad-lib — twixt  dude  and  gal — 
The  plump  contralto,  if  you  please, 

Chips  in  right  here  with  "come  down  Sal"; 
And  then  the  tenor  chose  to  rant 

In  foggy,  wobbly,  nasal  tones, 
Some  sort  of  gibberish  or  cant 

That  fairly  chill'd  your  marrow-bones; 
But  'twas  the  tenor's  right  to  roam 

In  music's  broad  entrancing  kraal, 
And  so  he  sends  the  echo  home — 

That  twice  repeated  "come  down  Sal". 
The  basso,  wriggling  in  his  seat, 

With  jealously  was  boilin'  o'er, 
For  his  one  chance  to  rise  and  beat 

The  three  that's  madly  howl'd  before! 
The  organist  the  ivories  paws, 

And  then  the  basso  mumbles — wal, 
'Twus  simply  that  long  drawn  out  clause, 

That  thrice  repeated  "come  down  Sal". 
H.)w  sad  to  think  their  cause  was  lost — 

The  lusty  voice,  the  organ's  hum — 
Ard  Sal  could  not  be  coax'd  nor  boss'd, 

So,  silenty,  refused  to  come. 
At  la^t  your  patience  sorely  tried, 

You  hoped  for  some-one  at  the  bat 
To  rush  the  game  straight  home,  beside, 

To  learn  what  they  were  drivin'  at. 
You  felt  the  climax  must  be  nigh, 

As  sure  as  sunshine  after  showers; 
When  lo,  the  blessed  four  doth  try, 

With  force  that  sways  the  pulpit  flowers, 
To  modernize  "ye  old-tyme  hymn," 

And  show  how  in  these  latter  days 
'Ye  ancient  tunes"  they  cut  and  trim, 

And  polish  off  'ye  old-tyme  lays. 
In  one  grand  effort  then  they  cry, 

With  most  prodigious  vocal  powers, 
"Come  down  Salvation  from  on  high" 

And  save  these  wretched  souls  of  ours! 

Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


HER  SOFT  BLUE  EYES 


I've  watched  the  roses  bud  and  blow 

Beneath  the  Summer  skies, 
Yet,  fairer  far  to  me  I  know 

A  pair  of  soft  blue  eyes, 
Of  luring  cast,  with  magic  fraught: 

Ah,  me,  alack-a-day 
Her  witchy  eyes  a  spell  had  wrought 

To  steal  my  heart  away! 

Oft  when  the  shades  of  evening  fall 

O'er  plain,  or  mossy  dell, 
From  memory's  page  I  e'er  recall 

The  most  alluring  spell, 
When  youth  and  beauty,  blithe  and  free, 

Withal  so  fond  and  true, 
A  glance  entrancing  sent  to  me 

From  eyes  of  sweetest  blue! 

O'er  all  the  earth,  in  any  climo 

Where'er  I'd  chance  to  dwell. 
The  fairest  flower — in  ripest  pr!me — 

Ne'er  wove  enchanted  spell, 
Which  could  my  fancy  turn,  nor  wrr.n 

From  me  the  blissful  hour, 
Nor  rtsychic  forces'  mystic  sheen 

Retrieve  me  from  their  power. 

Oft  have  I  studied  Fate  to  quell 

The  fast  consumirg  flame; 
Oi't  have  I  prayed  the  Muse  to  tell 

FrcTi  whence  the  passion  came. 
No  princess  fair  from  foreign  shore, 

Nor  precious  gems  I  prize: 
0"-  fond  beouest.  Love's  droam  is  o'er — 

This  pair  of  soft  blue  eyes! 

Willo\:y  f.^rro  arid  grace  may  blend 

With  Venus' — how  divine — : 
Enchanting  lore  a  voice  will  send, 

And  others  may  repine; 
And  wr.vy  hair  like  plumes  of  gold; 

And  cheeks  well  dimpled,  too. 
Mv  story  scarce  begun  is  told — 

And  all  for  eyes  of  blue 

(Bard  of  Tar  Flat,) 


FORSAKEN 


A  stately  mansion  rising  grand 

Against  the  azure  seemed  to  say, 
There's  naught  but  cheer  in  all  the  land; 

No  discontent  e'en  for  a  day. 
Tho  bright  and  cheerful  blaze  within, 

The   hum  of  merry  childhood's  voice 
O'er  games  and  frolics  to  begin, 

Where  all  the  household  may  rejoice. 

For  self  alone  from  day  to  day; 

From  month  to  month  and  year  to  year, 
They  trip  along  their  listless  way 

And  ne'er  the  voice  of  hunger  hear! 
No  thought  of  all  the  outer  world, 

The  misrr,  waif,  or  vagabond 
At  whom  the  shaft  of  scorn  is  hurled 

To  sink  them  deeper  in  despond! 

Dark  was  the  night  and  weirdly  drear, 

And  thunder  rent  the  midnight  air, 
And  lightning  flashed  his  demon  fear 
O'er  ev'ry  nook  and  thoroughfare. 

•hrough  the  window-pane; 
roplt  age,  and  youth  so  fair, 
Drenched  and  chill'd'by  hail  and  rain: 
Banished,  all  hope  of  mortal  care; 

Two  shadows  on  the  window-screen; 

And  such  a  night:  so  cold  and  drear! 
V    •'  ;n,  health,  wealth  and  joy  was  seen; 

Without,  grim  death  was  hov'ring  near. 
Plodding  along  the  broad  highway, 

A  withered  object  of  despair 
Leading  a  mite  as  fair  as  May, 

With  pleading  eyes  and  golden  hair: 

Withered  age,  youth  frail  and  fair, 

Alone — with  nought  but  soul  to  save — 
Too  soon  may  find  that  wifely  care; 

That  mother's  love,  beyond  the  grave! 
Whence  came  the  twain,  or  whither  bound, 

The  bustling  throng  may  never  know; 
Two  lifeless  forms  the  morning  found — 

The  storm-king's  wrath  had  laid  them  low! 
(Bard  of  Tar  Flat.) 


BROWN  EYES 


I  know  a  maid  in  this  old  town, 
With  raven  hair  and  eyes  of  brown, 
Who  has  the  sweetest,  sunniest  smile, 
And  witchy  manners  to  beguile 

The  boys  for  blocks  around. 
Of  untold  charms  is  she  possess'd, 
And,  to  her  lure  am  I  confess'd; 
But  later  you  will  understand 
How  I  must  bow  to  her  command — 

So  like  a  Spartan  bound! 

No  maid  was  e'er  more  blithe  and  sweet; 
And,  clad  in  raiment  proper  neat, 
She  tripp'd  along  the  great  highway 
Like  sunshine  thru  a  Summer's  day 

To  set  the  boys  a  blinking! 
So  young;  so  fair;  Of  love  and  mirth 

You'd  say  for  her  there  was  no  dearth; 
And,  so,  of  this  dear  maid  I'll  say, 
I'll  dream  forever  and  for  aye: 

Of  her  I'm  ever  thinking. 

For  me  it  was  but  to  propose, 

To  learn  how  she'd  perchance  dispose: 

So,  then,  I  cast  the  fatal  die, 

To  see  my  hopes  all  shatter'd  lie, 

And  Love  dispell'd  forever! 
Withal,  her  charm  of  grace  and  ease, 
Though  in  her  thrall  she'd  ne'er  displease; 
When  she  in  silvery  accents  said, 
"Pray  know  ye,  sir,  I  soon  shall  wed", 

Her  act  was  deftly  clever! 

There's  naught  for  me  but  to  atone 
For  my  presumption,  and  to  moan 
Thru  days  of  listlessness  and  grief, 
And  sleepless  nights,  and  no  relief 

From  bright  ambition's  vaunting. 
I  foster  ne'er  a  spite  nor  wrath 
For  thee  fair  maid:  I  pray  thy  path 
May — so  the  grace  of  God  disposes — 
Be  strewn  with  health,  and  wealth,  and  roses! 

And  nothing  e'er  found  wanting! 

(Bard  of  Tar  Flat) 


THE  REPORTER'S  DESK 


I  really  don't  know  what  to  write; 

So,  then,  old  pencil  ramble 
Regardless  of  a  love  or  spite 

For  them  that  pray  or  gamble! 
'Tis  coffee,  doughnuts,  mush   and  milk 

To  start  the  morning  battle — 
Scant  nourishment  'tis  for  pur  ilk 

Who  blend  church  stuff  with  tattle! 

It's  mighty  hard  to  spiel  the  truth 

To  all  the  daily  papers; 
They  want  the  breezy  stuff  forsooth — 

The  night-life  and  its  capers! 
Unless  we  serve  the  caper  sauce 

With  chickens  and  the  dressings, 
We're  ordered  to  the  mighty  boss 

For  editorial  blessings! 

Upon  the  carpet  we  must  kneel 

And  listen  to  his  raking, 
And  if  there's  heard  a  moan  or  squeal 

Our  job  we'll  be  forsaking! 
No  saintly  stories  can  v.-e  bring, 

Nor  classics  from  the  scholars: 
They  w?nt  us  promptly  at  the  ring 

To  write  about  the  maulers; 

And  how  the  winner  fell  in  love 

With  some  rich  banker's  daughter — 
Forsook  his  rural  honey-dove 

To  lead  the  rich  to  slaughter! 
And  how  an  old  man — sporty  dress'd — 

Was  furiously  talking 
AN>ut  the  contour  of  the  chest; 

The  fullness  of  the  stocking: 

Also  the  graceful,  swanlike  neck; 

The  brilliant  eyes  disporting, 
And  on  the  dimpled  cheeks  a  fleck 

Of  rouge — to  fire  the  courting! 
If  long  you'd  linger  with  the  craft, 

Just  be  a  chic  disporter, 
And  trim  your  bow  to  shoot  the  shaft 

Like  any  blaze  reporter! 

(Bard  of  Tar  Flat.) 


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Jflat      anb 

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fetorp  jfeelectrb  from 
"Cfje  Cattlrr*'  Hibrarp"  CoUrctton 

^ 


2?iiw  fHr&lmtifl  Bon  Sift  Bet. 

Three  men  I  feature  in  this  tale, 
With  joy  or  grief  to  leaven, 

To  Hades,  one,  perchance,    may  sail. 
The  other  two  to  Heaven. 

McGinnia  was  an  honored  man; 

O'Connor  was  a  grame; 
Whilst  Murphy  mingled  with  a  clan 

Unknown  to  wealth  or  fame. 

McGinnis  was  hot  over  rich, 

Yet  he'd  sufficient  gold 
To  place  him  far  above  the  ditch 

And  dare  the  winter's  cold. 

A  man  mongst  men    I'm  prone  to  say; 

Of  democratic  views: 
He  lived  the  clean  straightforward  way 
That  men  ofttimes  abuse. 

O'Connor  came  into  the  world 

O'er  bigoted  and  vain: 
His  stock  of  venom  oft  he  hurled, 

And  trailed  the  crafty  train! 

You  see  he  always  had  a  whine — 

Both  in  and  out  of  season — 
He  seemed  to  have  a  peevish  spine 

That  paralyzed  his  reason. 

If  things  were  good  they'd  sure  be  bad; 

If  bad  they'd  go  to  thunder; 
Scarce  lived  a  man  who  wa'n't  a  cad 

Woman  a  seventh  wonder. 

Altho  he  lived  the  rich  man's  role, 

Of  all  his  wealth  'twas  said, 
"From  poor  folks  half  of  it  he  rlole— 

The  balance  from  the  dead". 


Now,  Murphy,  angular  and  lean — 

From  genteel  folks  apart — 
Through  all  his  careless  ways  was  seen 

An  honest  pulsing  heart. 

He  surely  was  no  blatherskite, 

And  even  in  his  gills 
He  never  flunked  when  in  a  fight. 

But  feasted  on  its  thrills. 

No  trouble  breeder  e'er  was  Tim, 

Yet,  mixed  up  in  a  muss, 
You'd  have  to  pass  it  up  to  him 

For  bull-dog  nerve  and  cuss. 

His  creed  was  simple — Truth    and  Might: 

And  so  it  doth  appear 
He  kept  his  word  of  honor  bright 

And  scorned  the  weakling's  fear. 

Though  in  his  acts  were  many  flaws, 
You'd  brand  his  soul  as  square. 

He  measured  scant  in  social  cause — 
In  Truth  he  measured  rare. 

Where  Circumstance  with  grim  Despair 
Warps  some  poor  wretch's  heart, 

You'll  always  find  Tim  Murphy   there 
To  play  the  Kindling's  part. 

In  manners,  rather  crude  and  quaint; 

And  sometimes  swore  like  sin; 
Altho  he  never  posed  as  saint 

St.  Peter  '11  pass  him  in. 

For  years  Tim's  belly  and  his  pate 

Was  soaked  in  alcohol. 
At  last  he's  wed  to  cruel  Fate — 

Elixir  mixed  with  gall. 


McGinnis  banked  on  Murphy's  word; 

He  said,  in  forceful  vein, 
'He  never  knew  the  care-free  bird 
To  flunk  in  hope  of  gain. 

No  matter  where  or  what  the  brawl 

McGinnis  figured   thus: 
Tim  Murphy's  trend  was  but  a  call 

To  moralize  the  fuss. 

He  blent  Tim's  sorrows  with  the  sins 
„  And  mused,  "I  must  confess, 
^  hate  er  the  gamble  Murphy  wins 
Through  downright  cussedness! 

And  Murhpy  never  did  forget 
The  faith  McGinn's  staked; 
Nay,  never,  when  his  star  was  set, 
And  when  his  hulk  was  baked. 

One  day  Tim   spieled  a  spooky  tale 

Unto  a  doubting  group, 
And  said  "whenever  I  set  sail 

And  loop  the  skyward  loop, 

I  want  my  pals  of  this  old  zone— 
And  sure  my  runnin'  mate — 

As  soon  as  my  poor  soul  hath  flown 
My  carcass  to  cremate". 

Tim  never  spieled  a  doleful  tale, 

He  lived  the  brighter  side; 
Quoth  he,  "Let  others  mope  and  quail 

Whilst  I  in  joy  abide. 

O'Connor  heard  Tim  Murphy's  spiel, 

And  to  McGinnis  said, 
"Tisten  to  one  the  cuss  will  squeal 

Before  his  soul  hath  fl(  d". 


He'll  pray  in  accents  trembling  low, 

He  never  wished  it  thus, 
To  plant  him  pood  and  deep  below — 

Like  any  other  cuss. 

'O'Connor,  I  your  traits  despise: 

I'll  challenge  you  a  bet; 
Tis,  when  Tim  Murphy's  spirit  flies 
His  spiel  he  won't  forget!" 

"It's  here  I'll  chuck  a  thousand  bucks,' 

McGinnis  wrathful  said. 
A  thousand  s->  O'Connor  chucks, 

And  thus  the  bet  was  made. 

They  banked  the  checks  safe  in  escrow — 

McGinnis  knew, his  bird—; 
He  knew  O'Connor-— head  to  toe — , 
He'd  gauged  him  sou!  and  word. 

Well,  Murphy  skipped  the  rural  pale, 

But  in  a  tropic  zone, 
On  jackass-brandy— and  worse  ale—- 

He  shrank  to  skin  andbons. 

Once  more  his  simple  kit  he  strapped, 

Andcheerful  sallied  forth 
To  where  the  polar  bear  is  trapped— 
To  roam  the  frozen  north; 

And  here  he  met  a  nondescript— 

A  Hermit  of  the  hills — 
Who,  like  himself  had  northward  skipped, 
Far  from  the  rippling  rills; 

Far  from  the  fields  of  waving  grain; 

Where  meadow  larks  may  sing, 
Where  most  alluring  charms  obtain 

While  Youth  is  on  the  wing. 


And  ao  they  made  a  solemn  pact, 

And  swore  by  all  things  dear, 
That,  till  the  Lord  their  souls  had  sacked 

Upon  thig  hemisphere, 

They'd  pull  together,  like,  as  twins, 

Immune  to  mortals'  train — 
Made  up,  perhaps,  of  baser  sins; 

IVrhaps  of  Virtue's  plane. 

Content  is  bred  in  solitude; 

It  fosters  no  desire 
To  fraternixe  the  apish  dude 

To  snuggle  near  its  fire. 

Yet,  Sol  it 'uli1  may  sometimes  wane — 

With  vtlgaboncu  a«rree: 
So.  here  we  him-  :i  Denial  twain 

In  direful  ecstasy! 

Though  different  as  the  fn\-  and  clam — 

lartz  and  dirt  they  hurled— 
They  vowed  they  di  In't  care  a  damn 
For  all  the  outer  world. 

At  last  they  struck  the  gold  galore, 

And  sta  -ked  it  in  their  den. 
<.,)''.oth  Jake,  "when  Winter's  blasts  are  o'er 

And  Spring  drops  in  again, 

We'll  pack  our  dud*  some  cheerful  morn, 

Forget  the  rare  and  vex, 
1'ntil  old  C.abriel  blows  his  horn 

And  vcll.<.  "pass  i;i  your  checks." 

Hut  Murphy  knew  his  doom  was  told. 

And  so  he  made  his  will: 
'Twas,  for  Mrilinnis  all  hi<  gold  - 

For  his  dof rimers  nil. 


Melancholy  with  twilight  blent: 

Tim  murmured  as  he  sighed, 
"Dear  Jake  ere  dawn  I'll  pitch  my  tent 

Beyond  the  Great  Divide. 

I'll  trust  my  soul  to  mystic  Fate: 

O  promise  me,  sighed  Tim, 
That  my  poor  carcass  you'll  cremate — 

And  ne'er  a  prayer  nor  hymn! 

And  when  the  oven's  good  and  hot, 

And  into  it  I  slide, 
Though  dead,  I'll  dream  no  earthly  spot 

Shall  mark  where  I  abide. 

In  life  we  prize  the  favors  most — 

And  music  by  the  band — 
Not  after  we  yield  up  the  ghost 

To  roam  "That  Happy  Land." 

'Twas  when  the  sun  had  crept  below 

The  rugged  Northland  hills 
That  Murphy's  head-light  ceased  to  glow, 

And  canned  his  mortal  ills. 

'Twas  in  the  partner's  faithful  soul, 

To  carry  out  Tim's  plan, 
But  there  was  not  sufficient  coal, 

Nor  yet  a  toastin'  pan; 

But  while  his  frame  was  limp  and  bask 

Jake  folded  it  up  close, 
And  packed  it  in  a  whiskey  cask, 

Trusting  he'd  there  repose, 

Until  he  reached  the  old  home  town, 

Whereat  in  other  days 
They  jibed  him  as  an  apish  clown 

Withal  his  shiftless  ways. 


The  candle's  weird  and  yellow  flare 

Made  this  a  grewsome  sight; 
But  with  the  tools  and  tender  care 

He  wedged  the  head  in  tight; 

And  then  he  sledged  the  cask  adown 

The  snow-bound  icy  trail. 
Atlast  he  reached  the  weazen  town 

Where  ships  infrequent  sail. 

Dame  Fortune  smiled  on  Jake  again, 

For  here  he  saw  a  ship 
All  trimmed  to  plough  the  raging  main — 

AIM!  on  the  home-bound  trip. 

Ho  marked  the  cask,  "perishable  freight; 

And,  this  side  up  with  care; 
KC.-II  pool  and  do  not  agitato 

While  in  tho  tropic  air." 

They  put  him  in  the  ice-box  where 

He'd  keep  in  warmer  zones; 
And  thei"  no  wand'ring  rat  would  dare 

Disturb  his  restful  bones. 

At  last  he  reached  the  journey's  end. 

They  rolled  him  to  the  shack 
Where  oft  lie  and  a  swagger  friend 

Were  soused  in  hootch  or  sack. 

They  pulled  him  from  his  packing  case 
And  straightened  out  his  limits, 

To  sort  o'  give  him  somewhat  grace 
For  flowers  and  prayers  and  hymns. 

A  score  of  candles  then  they  lit 

Around  his  feet  and  head, 
But  ne'er  a  mourner  there  to  sit 

And  commune  with  the  dead. 


They  made  a  fire  in  Murphy's  stove, 

Then  left  and  closed  the  door, 
And  all  was  peaceful  as  a  dove 

For  full  an  hour  or  more. 

The  heat  soon  vaporized  the  booze, 

And  met  the  candles'  flare; 
But  Tim,  in  his  eternal  snooze, 

Knew  not  what  happened  there. 

There  came  a  hissin'.  cracklin'  sound; 

The  shack  was  full  aflame, 
And  soon  'twas  but  a  smould'ring  mound, 

And  Murphy's  ashen  frame. 

At  last  Tim  met  his  cherished  fate; 

There  lay  the  toasted  frame 
That  Providence  did  sure  cremate 
•  To  beat  O'Connor's  game. 

'Twas  Barlevcorn  that  cast  the  dart 

In  dread  Consumptive's  mold, 
That  stilled  the  throbs  of  Murphy's  heart 

And  laid  him  stark  and  cold. 

The  Devil  lost  the  game,  and  yet 

The  Lord — the  wise  ones  say — 
Is  with  the  righteous,  so  the  bet 

O'Connor  had  to  pay. 

Mediums  mused,  "the  Lord,  I  guess 

Took  Murphy  and  the  gin, 
And  pleased,  the  Devil  to  possess 

O'Connor  and  his  sin. 

As  Murphy  lived,  so,  Murphy  died; 

Square/  Through  eternal  day 
The  Lord  will  amble  by  his  side 

Along  the  Heavenly  Way. 

BARD  OF  TAR   FLAT 


Xeax>es 

from 

Album 


&f)ort  Storied  from  the  JJortical 
of  ttj?  l?ar&  of  aar  3Flal  aui 
tmtnrttt  Aurora 


— Nun-SCnaor 


(Battlera'  library"  ffiolirrtuin 


PRIEST— NUN— KNAVE 

They  gazed  afar  o'er  the  boundless  sea, 

So  restful  in  the  mellow  dawn; 
A  Priest,  a  Nun,  a  Knave — the  three 

Were  strangers  till  the  day  wore  on; 
Till  Phoebus  climb'd  the  eastern  hills 

To  usher  in  the  rosy  morn, 
And   kiss   the   sparkling,    rippling   rills, 

And  flutter  o'er  the  fields  of  corn. 

In  mute  communion  posed  they  there, 

With  nought  to  break  the  magic  train; 
And  scarce  a  tremor  of  the  air 

To  waft  the  secrets  of  the  brain  I 
In   Wonder-land  they   seem'd  to   dwell, 

Their  souls  imprison'd  deep  within 
Their   breast a   mask a   mystic   cell 

To  shield  a  virtue  or  a  sin: 

Rut  when  the  day  had  well  begun, 

And  smiled  on  ev'ry  shrub  and  flower. 
The  three the  Priest,  the  Knave,  the  Nun- 

Seem'd    to   invite   each   other's   power! 
'Twas  first  the  Priest  who  bow'd  in  prayer, 

Imploring  wisdom  from  above. 
To  guide  him  through  Life's  thoroughfare 

In  righteous  ways  and  holy  love! 

Me  pray'd  for  wisdom  from  on  high 

To  teach  the  frail  and  wayward  youth 
To  shun  the  pitfalls,  ever  nigh; 

To   grave  their  names  in  fearless  truth! 
In  sacred  eloquence  he  prayed, 

And  wrought  a  picture  most  sublime, 
Of  penitence  too  long  delayed; 

The  toll  the  sinner  pays  for  crime! 

And  what  a   picture!  how  divine; 

The   scenes   were  painted   bold   and   rare; 
They  show'd  the  tempter's  cup  of  wine, 

And,   too,   the  siren's  crafty  snare, 
And  Fashion's  sinuous  dances'  lure; 

Withal,  the  princely  banquet  fare, 
Where  Beauty  spurn'd  the  mien  demure. 

And   well-bred   sons   abandon'd   care! 


His  exhortation  ended  when 

He  bless'd  the  glorious  Summer  day, 
And  sweetly  murmur'd  his  Amen, 

Arose  and  went  his  chosen  way  I 
The  Nun  next  bent  in  wistful  mood. 

And  pray'd  for  strength  to  stem  the  tide 
Of  evil,  and  to  reap  the  good, 

And  evermore  in  peace  abide! 

"Unto  Thy  grace,  oh  God,"  she  said, 

"Do  I  commend  my  troubled  soul; 
Show  me,  a  wand'ring,  humble  maid, 

Redemption's  pathway  and  its  goal! 
Must  I,   in  scorn  at  ev'ry  turn, 

Yield  to  the  chill,  relentless  glare, 
Of  them  who  never  can  discern 

A  mortal  drowning  in  Despair? 

"Oh,  Lord,  my  shadow  follows  me 

Through  day  and  night;  and  ev'ry  hour 
I  vision,  whereso-e'er  I  flee, 

A  ghost  of  Satan's  ghoulish  power! 
The  error  of  my  youth  You  know, 

As  well,  the  torment  of  my  soul; 
'Twould  seem  an  all  sufficient  blow 

To  satisfy  the  Reaper's  toll!" 

'Twas  then  a  smile  of  sweet  content 

O'erspread  her  face  so  wond'rous  fair; 
And,  so  she  felt  the  Lord  had  lent 

A  list'ning  ear  unto  her  prayer. 
'Twas  thus  her  soulful  prayer  did  end, 

And,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  day 
She  murmur'd,  too,  her  sweet  Amen, 

Arose  and  went  her  chosen  way! 

Next,  then,  the  Knave,  in  sneering  mood, 

Defiant  in  his  self-conceit, 
Assumed  a  pompous  attitude 

And  framed  his  story  to  repeat. 
He'd  listen'd  to  the  Priest  and  Nun, 

And,  musing  o'er  their  pious  trend, 
Acclaim'd  that  whilst  Life's  skein  he  spun 

The  lord  of  sports  should  be  his  friend! 


In  modish  garb  he  loiter*  d  in 

The  halls  where  tainted  wealth  was  born; 
Where   Innocence   doth  there  begin 

The  night-life  with  its  dark'ning  morn! 
There  "neath  the  dazzling  chandelier 

He  spun  the  wheel  of  Rouge-et-Noir: 
The  Master-hand  made  it  appear 

That  he  had  won  a  thousand  more! 

Now,  crazed  with  drink  and  vain  success. 

The  Master-hand  had  him   in  thrall. 
Determined — in   his   helplessness — 

To  trap  him,  stakes,  and  fortune  all! 
The  game  was  o'er;  the  lights  were  low; 

The  night  without  was  dark  and  damp, 
But  Destiny  had  will'd  it  so; 

Henceforth  he   goes  a  vagrant — tramp! 

When  Reason  came  to  teach  the  code, 

Known  to  the  gamblers'  reckless  clan, 
H-  read  his  future  dread  abode 

More  fit  for  fowl,  or  beast,  than  man! 
Thus  read  his  story;  thus  the  end; 

And  through  the  chill  and  rainy  day, 
Bereft  of  e'en  a  worldly  friend 

He  shambled  o'er  his  chosen  way! 

But,  Fate  has  trail'd  the  wand'rers'  train 

Through  all  the  by-ways  of  the  past, 
And  brings  them  face  to  face  again 

The  Priest,  the  Nun,  and  Knave  at  last! 
The  Knave,  an  addict  to  cocaine, 

At  eventide,  when  all  was  still, 
L  ay  on  his  cot,  a  wretch  inane, 

Within  the  Poor-house  o'er  the  hill! 

The  Priest,  and,  too,  the  Nun  so  fair, 

As   bride  and   groom — a   happy   twain — 
Were  guests — or  rather,  callers  there 

To  chant  a  Christian's  sweet  refrain! 
This  picture  shows  to  foe  or  friend, 

Two  avenues  o'er  Life's  highway: 
It  shows  the  zone  where  each  may  end! 

Consider  well  thy  chosen  way! 

— Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


LIFE'S  MISSION 

Yield  not  to  blaze  illusions 

Of  untold  wealth  and  fame: 
Fear  never  a  man  of  the  gamblers'  clan: 

Play  straight  if  you're  in  the  game! 

At  times  it  may  seem  gloomy, 

A  wreath  of  thorns  thy  crown, 
Yet  ere  the  end  you  may  find  a  friend 

In  the  man  who  turned  you  down! 

In  the  stress  of  Life's  endeavor, 

In  the  turn  of  Fortune's  wheel, 
Be  never  afraid,  and  choose  thy  blade 

From  the  truest  tempered  steel! 

Let  Patience  be  thy  motto; 

Let  Honor  be  thy  goal; 
It  is  not  always  might  that  wins  the  fight; 

Ofttimes  it's  science  and  soul! 

Be  sure  of  thyself  when  summon'd; 

When  Duty  calls  attend! 
Faint  heart  ne'er  throve  on  a  conquest  of  love, 

Nor  scarce  could  gain  a  friend! 

Decline  the  grace  of  others — • 

The  favors  that  you'd  deny — 
'Tis  villain  or  sneak,  or  the  pitied  weak 

Who  gives  to  the  world  the  lie! 

Let  modesty  commend  you 

Where'er  you  wend  your  way: 
Don't   burden    your   mind   with    care;   you'll    find 

There'll  come  another  day! 

Ne'er  doubt  the  trend  of  Friendship; 

Mistrust   not  the  life-long  Friend: 
Events  rnay  occur  where  Parsons  may  err; 

Abide  in  faith  to  the  end! 

Your  mission  in  Life  now  ended; 

You've  fail'd  in  your  cherish'd  plan; 
Although  you  don't  hold  a  million  in  gold, 

You're  nevertheless  a  man! 

A  smile  for  the  humble  worthy; 

Don't  lose  your  soul  in  success: 
Perhaps  ere  you  die  your  fortune  may  fly, 

And  you'll  bend  low  in  distress! 

— Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


leaves 


from 


fltomorg's   Album 

&>turtffl  from  ihr  Jlnrttrnl 

of  the  Hard  of  ear  If  lat  and  ntfter 

tutinrnt  Authors 


in  a 


Olo  £ttrlyn 

Eattlera'  Ktbraru"  (Collrriion 
alransrrtpltnn 


iH.  9. 


A  LEGEND  OF  A  MAID 


Ah,  many,  many  years  unroll — 

A  thousand  years  or  more- — 
Ere  we  may  scan  upon  a  scroll 

Well  writ  in  ancient  lore, 
Where  dwelt  a  maid  of  notes  and  trills; 

A  maid  bewitching  fair, 
Among  the  charming  Piedmont  hills 

Whore  orchids  bloom  so  rare! 

Whereof  this  lithesome  hazel  blonde 

The  scrit  doth  firm  appeal; 
Sets  forth  her  word  as  bankers'  bond; 

Her  heart  as  truest  st(  cl : 
Of  physique  firm;  of  subtle  brain; 

Withal  a  classic  mien, 
To  h  ghest  art  did  well  attain — 

O'er  all  her  realm  was  seen! 

No  gentlewoman — be  it  said — 

Of  royal  blood  \vas  she; 
A  marchioness  of  Piedmont-glade; 

A  princess  soon  to  be: 
Yet,  wherewithal  in  art  a  prize, 

Possess'd  of  talents  rare; 
And,  too,  so  practically  wise — 

Although  uncommon  fair! 

Ne'er  served  she  at  the  kitchen  trade, 

Nor  toil'd  she  o'er  the  range, 
Yet,  from  the  baker's  stock  she  made — 

E'er  marvelous  and  strange — 
Full  ev'ry  compound  with  a  dash: 

Her  products  were  a  dream, 
From  old-time  vegetable  hash 

To  puffs  of  choc'late-cream. 

She  shamed  the  saddler  at  his  will; 

The  painter  at  his  brush. 
In  midnight  toil  she  train'd  her  skill 

When  all  the  world  was  hush! 
Upon  the  scroll  'twas  writ  the  maid 

Did  paint  exceeding  rare; 
On  precious  pottery,  'twas  said — 

Put  ne'er  her  cheecks  so  fair! 


In  music's  realm  did  she  excel — ' 

'Twas  so  the  classic  wrote — 
Upon  the  soulful  lyre,  as  well 

Forth  from  her  charming  throat, 
Came  melodies  in  rapture  bound 

To  thrill  most  grieving  hearts; 
Thus,  on  the  scroll,  'twas  writ  around 

This  maid  of  classic  arts! 

In  times  of  tournament  her  skill 

Ne'er  archer  dare  decry. 
The  trusty  arrow,  at  her  will, 

Pierced  sure  the  faint  bull's-eye. 
The  scimitar  she  well  did  know, 

To  guard,  to  feint,  to  thrust; 
And  many  a  plumed,  audacious  foe, 

Before  her  bit  the  dust! 

She'd  hunt  the  wild  beast  in  its  lair; 

And  through  the  mountain  wild, 
She'd  deftly  point  her  chestnut  mare — 

Though  tut  a  seeming  child! 
In  conquests,  sports,  and  all,  'tv.Tas  said 

She  held  in  bitter  scorn 
Opponents  granting  her — as  maid — 

The  thrills,  of  danger  shorn! 

'Twas  writ,  that,  on  a  Winter's  day 

She  dived  into  the  sea, 
And  challenged  boldest  knight  the  way 

To  follow  but  a  wee : 
Ah,  none  there  were  dared  venture  e'en 

To  swim  the  mad  waves  o'er; 
Yet,  this  fair  maid  of  dauntless  mien 

Swam  safe  to  distant  shore! 

Our  leisure  whi:ct  these  scenes  among, 

To  con  this  legend  old. 
We'd  glean  the  trend  of  hearts  so  young; 

Ay,  too,  the  knights  how  bold : 
We  fain  would  know  if  maid  so  fair 

May  challenge  boldest  knight. 
And  note,  to  follow  none  may  dare — 

From  morn  through  darkest  night! 


The  lamb  and  I'.on  truly  blent 

Supreme — the  modest  maid — 
And,  verily,  to  good  intent; 

No  man  hath  contra  said! 
Albeit  she  pursues  her  way 

Full  conscious  of  her  p< 
On,  to  that  endless,  cloudless  day 

Where  are  no  cares;  no  woes! 

So,  on  the  scroll  was  writ  this  theme, 

"A  Legend  of  a  Maid," 
And,  from  its  tenor  doth  it  seem 

A  Marchioness  portray'd : 
But  why  regret  the  slumb'ring  years — 

A  thousand  years  in  fine — 
A  rweetest  counterpart  appears 

At  Christmas,  nineteen-nine! 

—Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


REFLECTION 


Often  when  the  mellow  twilight 

Lingers  with  departing  day, 
Loth  to  vanish  in  the  ether 

Of  the  boundless  far-away, 
We  frail  mortals,  mute  in  dreaming 

Of  the  pleasures  fleeting  fast; 
Dreaming  o'er  Life's  sublime  picture, 

In  the  mirror  of  the  past! 

How  the  twilight  quickly  deepens; 

Night  has  cross'd  the  portal  near, 
With  her  magic  mantle  waiting 

For  the  day  to  disappear. 
Once  her  mantle  drawn  about  us, 

a  ray  of  hope  remains 
To  reshape  our  day  of  errors 

Or  revoice  our  sad  refrains! 


Yet,  I  would  not  live  Life's  Drama 

E'er  again  in  pious  thought 
I  could  make  a  cleaner  record 

By  the  lessons  grief  had  taught! 
Through  a  life  not  free  from  blemish, 

I  have  known  no  ribald  curse; 
Though  no  saint,  to  live  it  over 

I  might  make  it  ten-fold  worse! 

Let  the  years  agone  lie  buried 

'Neath  the  mounds  of  coldest  clay; 
Resurrect  no  ghost  of  fancy 

Prone  to  wear  a  life  away! 
Nay,  inhale  the  glorius  sunshine 

Full  to  fullness  while  it  lasts: 
Leave  to  them  who  brood  o'er  mishaps, 

Cloudy  skies  and  Wint'ry  blasts! 

Let  them  tell  their  tales  of  sorrow; 

How  misfortune  took  them  in; 
How  the  friends  would  borrow,  borrow; 

Weaving  e'er  a  web  of  sin, 
Then  the  web  so  deftly  woven 

They  were  caught  within  its  snare! 
Thus  duplicity  was  proven. 

Leaving  scarce  a  beggar's  fare! 

Ofttimes — stranger  far  than   fiction — 

Woeful  talcs  like  this  we  hear, 
Placing  all  on  crafty  diction 

Of  a  knave  immune  to  fear; 
But,  I'll  venture  this  reminder 

Ere  I  cast  aside  my  pen, 
That,  "our  fellcwmen  are  kinder 

Truly — nine  times  out  of  ten! 

Life  is  what  we  choose  to  make  it; 

Summer,  Autumn.  Winter  drear;  " 
Overflowing  now  with  pleasures — 

Sometimes  seeming  too  severe ; 
Yet,  upon  the  whole  no  changes 

Could  we  mortals  ever  plan, 
To  improve  the  Heav'nly  ransom 

God  bequeath 'd  in  trust  to  man! 

—Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


of 


leaves 

frnm 

Album 


frnm  tlj* 
Sari  of  Ear  3Flat  an&  atfjer 
Emtitntt 


'  Itbraru"  (Collrriion 

arausrriptuni 


.  D. 


CONSCIENCE. 


Don't  spurn  the  message  that  I've  writ; 
Reserve  it  for  the  thoughtful  hour, 

And  pass  it  for  an  honest  scrit 
Before  your  fatal  cloud  may  lower! 

I  trust  the  record  thus  shall  be- 
After  I'm  number'd  with  the  dead — 

No  mortal  e'er  appeal'd  to  me 
And  turn'd  away  unkempt;  unfed! 

A  selfish  act,  a  haughty  frown, 

A  mien  of  chill  urbanity, 
May  satisfy  the  apish  clown 

Who  thrives  upon  Life's  vanity! 
To  one  who  comes  well  shorn  of  mask, 

Whose  heart  o'erflows  with  charity, 
To  him,  or  her,  I'll  leave  the  task 

To  judge  of  my  disparity! 

I've  seen  the  blazon'd  banquet  hall; 

I've  known  the  shallow  lure  of  Whist; 
As  well,  the  jewell'd,  gauzy  ball, 

With  pure  and  impure  as  the  grist; 
The  grist  that's  sent  on  to  the  mill 

That  grinds  forever  and  for  aye, 
Where,  if  your  harvest's  check'd  as  nil 

You'll  see  yourself  as  Satan's  prey! 

The  Heav'nly  judge  you  can't  evade; 

He  won't  condone  your  vicious  ills; 
Up  there  you  cannot  masquerade 

And  save  your  soul  on  feints  and  thrills! 
'Tis  There  Deception's  mantle  drops; 

The  budding  flower  of  social  plane 
Is  winnow'd  from  the  righteous  crops, 

So  that  no  carnal  tares  remain! 

There,  no  false  prophet's  bland  request 

Shall  lure  you  from  the  saintly  fold; 
'Tis  There  you'll  need  no  treasure-chest 

Fill'd  to  the  lid  with  yellow  gold! 
Don't  think  the  world  is  upside  down; 

Don't  think  that  you're  the  only  saint 
On  whom  the  Lord  ne'er  casts  a  frown: 

Ne'er  such  a  picture  shall  you  paint! 


When  in  a  wakeful  hour — or  dream — 

Don't  score  your  neighbors  thru  and  thru; 
Perhaps  things  are  not  as  they  seem; 

They  may  be  nearer  right  than  you: 
And,  when  you  think,  my  dear  old  friend 

That  you've  more  wisdom  than  your  boss, 
Your  time  in  his  employ  may  end — 

May  be  his  gain— may  be  your  loss! 

Because  your  neighbors  do  not  rant, 

Nor  flare  their  virtues  o'er  and  o'er, 
Nor  hymns  in  doleful   measure  chant, 

Don't  think  kind  deeds  they  know  no  more! 
In  anguish  many  hearts  are  bow'd, 

Enmesh'd  in  coils  of  gossip's  snare; 
But  for  a  chance  were  they  allow'd 

Could  plead  a  record  clean  and  fair! 

You  have  a  soul;  you  have  a  heart; 

One  as  a  dreamer  to  depict, 
The  other  as  a  fateful  part — 

In  righteous  judgment  to  convict! 
Life's  drama  grand  buys  all  your  art; 

It  shields  your  grief  whilst  seeming  gay: 
They  care  not  for  the  yearning  heart— 

They've  paid  your  price  to  make  the  play! 


And  so  the  world  is  satisfied 

Withal  the  actors'  subtle  trend; 
You've  never  cast  the  mask  aside 

To  show  the  poise  -false  or  friend! 
Behold,  the  flame  of  sham  they  fan, 

And  white-wash  baneful  acts  in  fine! 
Shake  off  false  pride  and  be  a  man, 

And  fear  not  but  the  law  Divine! 


Your  '•  Club  Elite'  may  have  its  train 

To  procreate  a  social  caste; 
In  blaze  conceit  may  hope  to  gain 

A  regime  of  a  knightly  past: 
The  emptiness  of  all  this  glare 

They  do  not  seem  to  comprehend; 
And  once  in  thrall  they  may  not  dare 

To  spurn  the  foe  who  posed  as  friend! 


Throughout  Life's  Drama  thus  they  act, 

Yet,  mirror'd  on  the  Conscience  screen, 
They  see  their  dual  life  attack'd, 

And  shrink  in  horror  at  their  mien! 
Oh,  why  delay  the  blessed  hour; 

The  glorious  dawn  of  Virtue's  role, 
Ere  unrelenting  clouds  may  lower, 

And  Satan  claims  an  erring  soul! 

To  ev'ry  question— oft  'tis  said— 

"There  are  two  sides"  so,  then  I  pray, 
Ere  all  your  faith  in  one  is  dead 

Consider  well  the  scorners's  lay! 
Engage  the  person  e'er  accused; 

In  honor's  claim,  of  him  demand 
The  wherefor  he's  so  much  abused, 

Or  pass'd  in  sneers  at  ev'ry  hand! 

If  his  recital— all  serene— 

Brings  forth  a  tale  you'd  brand  as  true, 

I'll  say  you  re  k^ave— or  born  in  spleen— 
To  shun  his  path  afl  others  do! 

Whilst  others  show  their  silent  scorn, 
Or  vent  their  ppite  whene'er    hey  can, 

'Tis  sweet  to  feel  that  you  were  born 
In  fear  of  God— a  friend  to  man! 


There  is  a  debt  of  honor  due 

To  ev'ry  mortal™ foe  or  friend— 
And  ere  Life's  journey  we  are  through 

'Tis  well  that  we  make  our  amend. 
Although  you're  robed  in  saintly  gown 

In  Life's  great  drama,  I  believe 
That  when  they  ring  the  curtain  down 

The  Lord's  critic  you'll  ne>er  deceive! 

And,  when  up  There,  they  call  the  roll 

Of  actors  for  that  endless  play, 
They'll  note  the  sham  that's  in  vour  soul 

And  ban  your  blandishments  for  aye! 
While  speeding  o'er  the  course  of  Life, 

It  matters  not   the  tim*»  or  place, 
Be  well  prepared  ere  erds  the  strife 

To  look  your  Maker  in  the  face! 


Your  social  claim  avails  you  nought; 

Your  worldly  worth  is  but  a  dream: 
Your  heart  must  be  as  purely  brought 

As  e'er  the  mountain's  crystal  stream! 
You  think  your  conscience  is  obscure; 

The  wickedness  within  unknown; 
But,  ne'er  was  legend  written  truer 

Than,  "ye  shall  reap  as  ye  hath  sown"! 


Leaf  by  leaf  the  roses  falling; 

Drop  by  drop  the  springs  run  dry; 
One  by  one  beyond  recalling 

Souls  of  mortals  Heav'nward  fly! 
Look  ahead  whilst  hope  caressing; 

Let  the  past  deep  burried  lie— 
Lest  the  earthly  ilia  distressing 

Greet  the  superstitious  eye! 
Waver  not  in  life's  endeavor; 

Aim  at  heights  where  all  supreme 
Virtue's  name  shall  live  forever; 

Thenfulfill'd  thy  fondest  dream! 
Looking  backward?  nay,  nay  never; 

Not  to  grope  in  error's  train: 
Look  ahead  and  pray  that  ever 

Wisdom,  honor,  ye  shall  gain! 
Would  ye  blight  ere  scarcely  budded, 

Wither,  droop,  and  full  decay, 
All  too  listless  to  have  studied 

Life's  pure,  wholesome,  only  way? 
Round  and  round  the  wheels  keep  turning, 

Of  Life'  s  busy,  busy  mill: 
Keep  the  home-fires  brightly  burning; 

Cheerful,  be  a  worker  still! 
Wake  ye,  then,  in  earnest  action, 

Ere  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 
When  St.  Peter's  benefaction 

From  thy  fare'll  be  surely  drawn! 
Neve*  with  a  laggard's  shamble 

Shall  ye  find  one  precious  gem; 
Never  with  the  thrifty  ramble — 

Naught  would  be  thy  diadem  ! 

—Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


leaves 

from 

Album 


dtarir*  from  tlje  Poetical 
of  tlje  5ari  of  Sar  JIat  au&  att|rr 
Emtttf  ut  Autlj0rB 


JHut-Anklf-Amftt 


Saltlera'  Cihrarg" 


TUT-ANKH-AMEN 

-EXAMINER,"  the  newsies  bark; 

"EXTRA,  extra;  the  great  surprise; 
The  biggest  thing  since  Noah's  Ark; 

They've   found   where   Tut-Ankh-Amen    lies!" 
Great  men  of  science  now  can  tell 

Of  doings  when  the  world  was  new; 
Where  kings  and  hoboes  used  to  dwell, 

And  how  they  pull'd  the  big  stunts  throughl 

They  carved  their  acts  ~bn  slabs  of  stone. 

And  scribbled  them  on  papyrus; 
And,  yet  for  ages  nought  was  known 

About  a   solitary  cuss! 
They  surely  fell  short  in  discretion 

As  robber  barons  often  do; 
Had  they  been  stars  in  their  profession 

We'd  still  be  hunting  for  a  clew! 

\\  «-'re  told  about  their  jewels  rare, 

And   gold  wrought   into  wondrous  lines, 
And  dainty  fabrics  for  their  fair. 

And    precious   vessels    for   their  wines  I 
They  tell  us  that  the  women  folks 

Were  skill'd  in   decorative  art, 
And   that  cosmetics  were   no  jokes, 

But   served   them  as   make-up  parti 

And.  judging — as  the  record  goes — 

Their  lips  and  cheeks  were  tinted  red, 
And,  too,   they  powder'd  off  their  nose, 

And  bobb'd  their  hair — the  better  bredl 
They  tell  us  that  the  dancing  girls 

Were  agile  and  not  over  shy, 
And  through  the  hazy  light  their  whirls 

Were  most  alluring  to  the  eye! 

And  all  their  dresses,   don't  you  know. 

Were  up  to  date 'twixt  you  and  I, 

They  wore  'em  very  high  below, 

And  very  much  too  low  up  high! 
Sometimes  their  arms  and  legs  were  bare, 

Yet,    some    of  'em   wore   shadow-hose— 
You  see  they  had  no  censor  there 

To  fill  an  old  man's  heart  with  woesl 


'Tis  sad  to  know  at  this  late  day, 

They  left  no  movie-picture  slides. 
To  teach  us  of  the  manly  way 

They  had  of  sizing  up  their  brides. 
We  wonder  if  they  kiss'd  their  paws, 

And  bow'd  and  scraped  in  frigid  style, 
Or  did  they  grab  *em  in  their  claws 

And  squeeze  'em — as  in  modern  guile? 

And  when  the  giddy  show  was  o*er, 

The  night  was  dark,  the  hour  was  late, 
Did  they  escort  'em  to  the  door, 

Or  kiss  'em  good-bye  at  the  gate? 
So  far  their  records  nothing  show 

Relating  to  their  bill  of  fare; 
We  sort  o'  feel  we'd  like  to  know 

Just  what  they  ate — how,  when,  and  where! 

We  hope  some  day  it  will  appear— 
This   information  that  we   seek 

And  tell  us  if  'twas  five  cent  beer, 
And  room  rent  two  fifty  per  week! 

We  wonder  if  the  hie:h-brows  knew 
A  code  to  live  within  their  means, 

And  would  they  switch  from  frog-leg  stew 
To  Boston  brown  bread,  pork  and  beans) 

But,   size  the  bunch  up  as  you  may, 

Their  methods  were  not  always  bunk— 
For  instance,  when  their  mortal   clay 

They  preserved  in  the  form  of  punk! 
Trnt  act  appalls  our  modern  guys — 

Cramm'd  full  cf  late-day  college  lore — 
And  brands  them  ancients  over  wise 

In  stunts  that  we  can  do  no  more! 

Perhaps  some  day  they'll  get  more  news 

Of  breezy  Tut  and  all  his  clan; 
Or,  yet  unearth  more  ancient  clues 

To  lead  'em  to  a  bigger  man! 
Perhaps  in  digging  deeper  down 

They  may  exhume  a  royal  sire 
Who'll  make  old  Tut  look  a  clown — 

And  all  his  stuff  will  hunt  a  buyer! 


Or,  they  could  frame  a  "Clearance  Sale,'* 

And  placards  reading,  "goods  mark'd  down, 
Or,  auctioneer!  to  spiel  and  rail 

To  all  the  "bargain  nuts"  in  town  I 
And  when  their  stock  was   getting  low, 

With  buyers  still  at  fever-heat, 
New  Jersey  artisans  we  know 

Could  fill  rush  orders  most  completel 

Napoleon  had  a  bedstead  rare, 

Where  oft  he'd  lay  his  frame  to  rest, 
And  to  evade  the  damn'd  night-mare 

He  vision'd  in  his  murder  quest! 
This  bedstead,   now  a   priceless  prize, 

Stands  in  an  antique  lover's  shrine 
In  ev'ry  nation  "neath  the  skies 

And  each  one  pass'd  as  genuinel 

Upon  our  fancy,  fakers  play — 

Where  doubt  hangs  by  a  single  thread-  — 
And  so  I'll  say  our  modern  jay 

Is  quite  as  slick  as  Tut's  old  dead! 
A  great  man  once  with  us  was  placed — 

A   mighty  Emperor — Norton    I    (one)  ; 
Although  not  quite  unto  our  taste, 

He  surely  was  some  son-of-a-gun! 

We  mention  this  that  you  may  see 

A   monarch  once  with   us  did  dwell; 

So.    from   Egyptian   to  Chinee 

The  spooky  thrills  are  few  to  tell! 

Ten   thousand   years  or  more  from   now— 
With  ancient  history's  pages  read — 

They'll   know  the  methods,   place,  and   how 
We  plant  our  Great  and  Royal  dead! 

Or,  better  still,   there'll  be  the  boon 

Of  wireless  that  will   help  'em  out! 
They'll  get  us  far  beyond  the  moon, 

To  tell  'em  just  what  we're  about! 
But  in  our  tombs  they'll  find  no  gold, 

Nor  precious    gems,   nor  antiques   stored. 
We'll  state  that  fearing  rust  or  mold, 

We  turn'd  them  in,  to  Henry  Ford! 

— Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


APOLOGIES  TO  KISSER 

You're  wasting  time,  Kisser,  to  ply  the  hot  iron 

To  Sir  Oliver  Lodge — or  Conan  Doyle's  dope, 
Whilst  we've  our  good  prophet,  our  dear,  wily  Bryan, 

To  bolster  us  up  in  our  shadowy  hope! 
'Tis  true  it  seems  dark  and  uncertain  as  blazes, 

At  times  as  we  hobble  along  the  highway, 
With  all  of  the  rich  men  a-ridin',  be  jazez, 

And  we  have  to  hoof  it  from  three  miles  away! 

Relentless  they  grind  us;  they  show  no  contrition; 

They  envy  us,  even  the  powder-face  lass; 
They've  wither'd  our  maws  by  their  damn'd  prohibition — 

They'll  soon  leave  us  nothing  but  water  and  grass! 
But  some  day  we'll  vamoose  away  from  this  plunder, 

This  joyous  Hypocracy  whitewash'd  with   care, 
Away  to  that  zone  where  it's  hotter  than  thunder, 

Where  all  of  the  lodgers  go  foodless  and  bare! 

Where's  never  a   tag-day,  no  taxes  to  worry, 

No  picture-show  darlings  to  flatten  our  purse, 
No  babies  to  yank  us  out  nights  in  a  hurry, 

No  women  on  juries for  better  or  worse! 

Where  laddies  and  lassies  are  never  in  terror 

Whilst  doing  the  Fox-trot,  or  Hawaiian  Flop; 
They  never  arrest  an  old  jay  for  an  error 

And  give  him  six  months  through  the  ban  of  a  COP! 

Where  Tom-cats  ne'er  roam  in  nocturnal  incursions; 

Where  Poll-parrots  never  disturb  you  at  dawn; 
Where  horse-races,  prize-fights,  and  other  diversions 

Are  but  the  mere  shadows  of  days  that  are  gone! 
Where's  never  a  snap  for  the  banker  or  broker, 

Though  pratin-g  their  wisdom — the  price  of  their  soul; 
They'll  tackle  a   job  to  hold  down  as  a  stoker 

Till  skill'd  in  the  science  of  shoveling  coal! 

You'll  never  be  pester'd  by  rich  undertakers. 

Nor  insurance  spielers — their  boon  to   declare, 
Nor  book-agents,   parsons,   or  street-corner  fakers — 

Though  it  costs  not  a  cent  for  a  bag  of  hot  air! 
Dear  Kisjler,  brace  up,  swipe  the  dope  that  I'm  giving; 

Don't  fail  to  butt  in  on  this  glorious  chance; 
You'll  not  be  distress'd  by  the  high  cost  of  living — 

And  not  a   damn  nickel  to  join  in  the  dance! 


The  Devil  must  surely  have  many  attractions: 

His  play-house  has  never  been  posted,  "To  Let," 

So,  when   I  am  through  with  these  earthly  distractions, 
I'm  off  on  the  first  train  for  Hades,   you  bet! 

— Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


from 


Album 


ftljort  ft  in  r  ir  a  from  ihr  Jhutirai 
of  the  Sard  of  ear  3Uat  and  otter 
Suttnf  nt  Authors 


Satllfra'  Ctbrarg"  ffiollfrliott 
(Erannrripltnn 

bH 

ifl.  B.  i5. 


TAKEN  FROM 
SHAKE'S    PEER'S    LIFE    OF    NOAH. 


I'm  told  a  book  in  ancient  lore 

Records  a  mariner  named  Noah, 

Who — as  a  hobby — built  a  boat, 

And  on  the  Spring-tide  let  her  float; 

But,  ere  he  hove  his  anchor  in, 

He  seized  of  ev'ry  living  thing 

A  pair,  and  sacks  of  grub  and  coal 

And  stowed  them  in  the  lower  hold. 

Shem,  Ham,  and  Japheth  shipp'd  as  crew, 

Then  closed  the  shutters  thru  and  thru. 

How  long  he  cruised— both  far  and  wide — 

Was  never  known;  but  'twas  ebb-tide 

When  from  the  Ark  a  gentle  dove 

Flew  forth  in  search  of  cabbage  grove, 

Or  coursing  park— that  Coffroth  plann'd — 

Or  symbol  from  the  submerged  land! 

When  lo,  the  bird  cams  to  roost, 

And  with  an  olive  leaf  to  boost 

The  hopes  of  Noah  and  his  friend, 

That  they  would  shortly  sight  "Land's  End".     f^JUf 

As  o'er  the  boundless  sea  stole 

A  glance,  he  saw  nt  the  North  Pole, 

A  sign  that  chuck'd  him  full  of  thrills — 

Though  somewhat  blurr'd  it  read  "Ayers'  Pills". 

"Land,  ho",  shriek'd  Noah  from  the  bridge! 

"The  Golden  Gate",  yell'd  Sam  Shortridge! 

"What,  San  Francisco;  holy  smoke, 

My  new  chronometer's    a  joke! 

Then  presently  he  heard  a  sound 

Of  many  voices;  looking  around 

He  spied  a  Yankee  and  some  chaps 

At  logger-heads  a  playin'  Craps. 

Alas,  alas,  sighed  old  man  Noah, 

Such  recklessness  I  much  deplore! 


Put  me  ashore;  I'll  homeward  steal — 
Except  I'm  punctured  in  the  heel. 
So  like  Achilles,  young  and  bold, 
Or  yet  like  Hector,  dragg'd  and  roll'd, 
Amid  the  din  of  fiendish  joy, 
Thrice  round  the  walls  of  wretched  Troy! 
Then  round  his  pyre  the  villains  mix 
To  roast  and  throw  him  in  the  Styx! 
And  thus  mused  Noah  till  the  brine 
Fill'd  both  his  optics;  and  their  shine 
\V   >  dimm'd,  and  astigmatic  view 
Cans,  d  him  to  see  six  things  for  two! 
But,  Ncah  was  not  built  to  pine; 
,.d  a  stubborn,  (  eltic  spine. 
At  last  an  aunt,  sedate  and  queer, 
Yell'd  in  his  dull  and  starboard  ear, 
Sell  the  old  bout,  and  with  the  cash, 
Togg  out  in  style  and  cut  a  dash; 
Engage  a  suit-  and  bt-  a  swell 
In  Jimmy  Phelan's  Roof  Hotel! 
Don't  mope,  don't  be  a  chronic  bore; 
Start  a  second-hand  clothing  store! 
Not  on  your  tin-type;  woe  is  me, 
I  have  a  longing  for  the  sea; 
I'd  be  a  failure  on  the  land; 
I'll  steer  my  boat  for  Jordan's  strand, 
And  build  a  trade  in  figs  and  dates, 
Radios,  fiddles,  codfish,  skates, 
And  movie  films,  as  business  thrives! 
Hail  to  the  day,  my  sons  and  wives  — 
When  last  I  croak  and  skip  "Across" 
You  scoop  the  cash  and  mourn  the  ''boss"! 
For  lawyers'  fees— and  other  sharks— 
I'll  leave  a.  billion  German  Marks! 

—Bard  of  Tar  Flat 


Sprats  of  /Ifooonsbine 

through  tty  (garrrt    Window 


fefjort  *>torte* 

Cram 

vCiic  Cortical  ®Uurks 
uo 


lltbrr 

^uli  ilunii 
•Uitbliflhiu 


Sritratri 
to 


33.  *. 


ODE—  TO     THE    WAITER    GIRL. 

You'll  notice  each  morning  I  breakfast  here 
Why  it  so  happens  I'll  tell  you  my  dear. 
I  like  your  niush,  and  eggs,  and  ham, 
Your  apple-sass  and  currant  jam. 
I  like  your  bunns,  and  cakes  and  pies- 
Last,  but  not  least,  your  sparkling  eyes. 
Your  sweetheart,  miss,  pray  do  not  tell, 
For  he  would  shout  as  sure  as  h  —  -=-1 
"Any  old  jay  who  writes  such  rot 
Never  should  dwell  in  a  white  man's  cot.: 
Trial  by  jury,  convicted,  and  then 
Sentenced  for  life  to  a  "Hermit's  Den"; 
And  a  hardwood  plank  whereupon  to  lie, 
With   nothing  to  eat  but,  Eskimo  Pie; 
And  jackass-brandy  to  slacken  his  thirsts 
Till  his  dome  explodes  or  his  stomach  bursts: 
Then  mop  the  floor  with  the  infamous  bard 
Who  reels  off  the  stuff  we  print  on  this  card. 

BILL  SHAKE'S  PEER 


THE    WAITER-GIRL'S     LAMENT. 

My  dear  old  friend  Jingler  I'm  reeding  your  verge 
*  It  might  have  been  better—  it  couldn't  be  worse! 
Don't  slaughter  old  Webster—  like  mince-meat  for  pies, 

For  our  boarding-house  critics  to  analyze 
Advising  you  thus  you  may  say  that  I'm  queer; 

But  I  think  you  were  fashioned  for  handing  out  beer. 
Perhaps  a  good  eurgeon  you'd  possibly  make; 

But  O,  my  dear  friena  I  beseech  you  forsake 
The  role  of  a  scribbler  and  tackle  a  job; 

Where  there's  never  a  fear  of  a  whack  on  your  nob! 
Perhaps  you  may  happen  to  have  on  a  jag; 

If  not  I  will  say  you're  a  consumate  wag 
Your  pretense  at  rhyming  I  truly  deplore: 

O,  please  spare  my  feelings;  don't  write  any  more! 
I'm  sorry  to  note  that  you  style  yourself  "BARD"; 

The  stuff  you  reel  off  ain't  worth  ten  cents  a  yard; 
For  when  you  have  paid  for  pens,  paper  and  ink, 

There'll  be  nothing  left  you  for  victuals  and  drink: 
You  wouldn't  have  car  fare;  forever  ycu'd  walk; 

You  couldn't  buy  sweetheart  a  kirtle  cr  smock. 
For  ice  cream  and  candy  she'd  languish  you  know; 

Likewise  for  the  movies  and  vaudeville  show! 
Don't  brood  o'er  the  chilly  advice  that  I've  writ 

Simply  throw  up  the  sponge  and  call  it  a  quit! 

WAITER  GIRL 


A    BACHELOR'S    PRAYER. 

•-vard,  turn  backward,  O  Time  in  your  flight 
ra  us  a  maiden  with  skirts  not  so  tight; 
Give  uj  a  tfirl  whose  charms,  many  or  few, 

\re  not  so  exposed  by  much  peek-a-boo. 
Give  us  a  maiden— no  matter  what  age — 

Who  won't  use  the  street  for  a  vaudeville  stage 
Give  us  a  girl  not  so  sharply  in  view; 

Dress  her  in  skirts  that  the  sun  won't  shine  through! 
Give  me  the  dances  of  days  long  gone  by, 

With  plenty  of  clothes,  and  steps  not  so  high; 
Oa  i  turkey-trot  capers,  and  buttermilk  glides, 

Tha  hurdy-gurd  twist  and  the  wiggle-tail  slides; 
Then  let  us  feast  our  tired  optics  one*  more 
On  "Genuine  Woman"  as  sweet  as  of  yore 
Yes,  Time,  please  turn  backward  and  grant  our  request 
i''or  God's  richest  blessing — but  not  one  undressed. 
WYOMING  MOUNTAINEER. 


APOLOGIES    TO    THE    BAREFOOT    BOY. 

blessings  on  thee,  little  girl, 
Bare-kneed  miss  with  brain  awhirl, 
With  thy  rolled-down  shadow  hose — 
Where  the  deuce  are  all  thy  clothes? — 
And  thy  red  mouth — such  a  sight — 
"reared  with  lip  stick  day  and  night! 
With  thy  pj-vder  and  thy  paint, 
Cobweb  blouse  that  almost  ain't! 
.e  heart  dear  you  give  pains: 
Has. it  mother  any  brains? 


Rl-»s3'.nr':;  j.n  thee,  mimic  man, 
Vv'itn  tny  cheek  so  shy  of  tan; 

thy  nair  all  smeared  with  oil; 
Fists  that  never  have  known  toil 
With  a  "fag"  between  thy  tteth, 
A  :id  a  A->a'«c  chin  underneath; 
•Vith  thy  hands  all  manicured, 
And  a  brain  that's  immatured, 
We  poDr  women  you  make  sick, 
.j-^n'i  father  any  kick? 

(Transc.) 


from 


Album 


ied  fruui  tlje  J 

uf  tlir  Sari  of  Sar  Slat  aub   ollirr 
Eminrnl  Autljcre 


nf 


Dehtfinin 
ulattlera'  Cibrartr"  (Eollrrttmi 


lit  9.  *. 


SONG  OF  THE  KODAK  GIRL 

'Twas  a  lovely  Sunday  morning, 

With  the  Sun  the  hills  adorning; 

And  the  fields  were  clad  in  all  their  freshest 
green, 

When  a  maid  with  lots  of  fixtures — 

Such  as  used  in  taking  pictures- 
Came    gaily    tripping    through    the    sunshine 
gleam; 

And  she  said,   "if  not  distressing — 

With  your  pardon  for  addressing — 

You'll  oblige  me  if  you'll  quietly  abide 

In  your  happy  disposition, 

And  your  present  suave  position, 

While  I  snap  you  for  a  movie-picture  slide." 

'Twas  in  Summer;  and  beginnin* 
With  a  jaunty  suit  of  linnin', 

I  will  tell  you  how  my  head  went  all  a-whirl; 
An*  a  faintest  hope  of  winnin', 
But  you  see  'twas  not  my  innin', 

With  the  dearest,  swellest,  little  kodak  girl. 
I  was  strollin'  by  the  river, 
When  my  heart  went  all  a-quiver, 

And  my  hat  within  my  hand  went  all  a-whirl; 
Did  I  tropically  shiver? 
Ask  me  not — but  I'll  forgive  her 

If  she  nevermore  her  Cupid  darts  will  hurl! 


With  her  fingers  slim  and  taper, 
And  her  poise  the  proper  caper. 

While  her  camera  she  pointed,  naively  said. 
"Glad  you'.re  frohly  from  your  draper; 
Glad  to  snap  you  for  our  paper; 

You  will  please  me,  sir,  to  slightly  r-Jiue  youc 

head!" 

'Neath  her  hat — a  merry  widder — 
From  the  Sun  it  nicely  hid  her; 

Teeth  of  pearl  and  dimpled  cheeks  so  like  the 

rose; 

So  I  tried  to  pass  and  rid  her 
Of  obtrusion  which  I  did  her — 

Or  annoyance  where  I   rashly  might  propose! 

Now  a  makin*  eyes  I  caught  her — 
And  I  felt  1  hadn't  ought-er — 

She  was  blushin*   like  the  sweetest   roses   red; 
Ah,  to  me  this  fairest  daughter 
Smiled  and  said,  'across  the  water"—— 

But  it   breaks   my   heart   to   tell  you   what  she 

said! 

Oh,  my  heart  in  »ore  oppression 
As  1  ask  her  for  possession 

Of  her  heart  and  hand;  again  she  naively  said, 
"For  your  modesty's  transgression 
I  will  render  my  confession: 

Sir,  to  one  across  the  water  I  am  wed!" 

REFRAIN 

When  Vesper-bells  chime,  enchanting,  sublime. 

Pray  tell  whatso'er  will  you  do, 
In  glad  Summer-time,  midst  myrtle  and  thyme. 

When  girls  train  a  kodak  on  you> 

— Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


Stva\>  Heaves 

from 

f$em0r\>'fi    Album 

$6>i)ort  Storied  from  the  yorticul  ailnrks 
of  tijr  tBarfo  of  aar  JFlat  au&  atl|rr 
Emmrnt 


elir  SriJ  fflhilp  a nb   Slur 


A  u>al?  of 


from 
Saltlers'  Hibrary"  (Collrrttott 


THE  RED,  WHITE  AND  BLUE 

Twas  a  stanch  new  ship;  'twas  her  maiden  trip, 

And  her  crew  were  seasoned  tars, 
Whilst  her  skipper  and  mates  wore  sun-browned  pates 

And  swore  by  the  "Stripes  and  Stars"! 
'Twas  the  month  of  May  when  she  sailed  away 

On  a  voyage  to  the  tropic  seas, 
And  her  starboard  tack  left  a  foamy  track 

As  she  sped  with  a  whole-sail  breeze! 
With  a  harvest  moon  and  a  dog-watch  rune 

Whilst  the  old  tars  prophesy 

The  good  ship  and  true,  "The  Red,  White  and  Blue," 

Hove-to  'neath  a  tropic  sky. 
At  the  mouth  of  the  straits  for  a  pilot  she  waits 

To  take  her  safe  over  the  shoal, 
And  into  the  bay  where  the  merchantmen  lay, 

Till  swung  to  their  berths  at  the  mole. 
From  out  of  her  hold  the  cargo  was  sold: 

She  chartered  again  as  before, 
To  plough  the  high  seas,  to  the  Florida  Keys 

And  from  thence  on-  to  Singapore. 
She  was  ninety  days  out or  thereabout 

And  the  mid-day  sun  looked  glum, 
Whilst  the  sea-dog-mate  wore  an  anxious  pate 

And  swallowed  his  gill  of  rum ! 
"All  hands  on  deck,"  piped  the  boatswain;  a  fleck 

Appeared  in  the  cloudless  sky: 
The  nautical  head  of  the  skipper  was  led 

To  forecast  a  typhoon  hard-by; 
His  forecast  was  true;  the  telltale  spot  grew, 

To  a  breeze  and  to  a  gale! 
The  skipper  and  mates  of  the  sun-browned  pates 

Gave  orders  to  shorten  sail. 
From  his  whistle  so  true  the  boatswain  blew 

The  call  of  the  sea-dog-mate! 
The  thunder's  fierce  roll  bespoke  the  grim  toll 

At   Neptune's   treacherous   gate! 
Then  rang  out  eight  bells — the  starboard-watch  knells— 

And  the  bold  mate  yelled,   "Tack  ship," 
Then  again,   "Hard-a-lee,"   as  the  maddened  sea 

Ploughed  in  for  a  fatal  dip! 
So  the  seas  surged  on,  as  of  tempest  born. 

And  bred  in  relentless  hate, 
Whilst  skipper  and  crew  of  "The  Red,  White  and  Blue* 

Were  held  in  the  coils  of  Fate. 


O'er  thf  mad  seas  toss'd,  and  her  main  deck  washed. 

The  struggle  for  life  went  on; 
Under  close-reef  sail  she  met  the  fierce  gale 

And  tore  a  hole  through  the  storm! 
Her  oaken  ribs  groaned,  and  the  mad-caps  moaned 

And  shrieked  in  their  drunken  glee, 

iting  the  doom  of  the  ship  through  the  gloom 

To  heighten   the  deviltry! 
On  and  onward  she  sped,  and  hope  had  nigh  fled 

As  she  scud  before  the  gale; 
Then  a  Satanic  freak — she  had  sprung  a  leak, 

And  she  ducked  her  leeward  rail! 
How  she  shivers  and  jumps  as  they  man  the  pumps, 

And  the  top-masts  go  by  the  board. 
Lo,  the  seasoned  tars  knew  it  was  die  or  do, 

Whilst   the  storm   king   louder   roared! 
With  the  storm-stny-sail   sheet  sent   home   to  the   cleat, 

And  the  main  sheet  haui'd  chock-a-block, 
She  writhed  in  her  plight  like  a   demon  of  night, 

The  phantom  of  death  to  mock  I 
With  a   sickening   wail,   washed   over  the   rail, 

The  steward  was  sent  to  his  doom, 
Where  myriads  sleep   in   the   fathomless   deep— 

In  a  crypt  of  ocean's  tomb. 


Onward  and   on   the  stanch  ship  sped, 

And  thrice  she  missed  that  watery  grave, 

That  fathomless  tomb  of  countless  dead 

Beyond  all  mortal  power  to  save! 


The  herald  of  Fate  bade  the  tempest  abate: 

At  last   through   the   fearful  gloom 
Came  a   gladdening  sight 'twas  the  beacon-light 

And  the  signal  cannon's  boom! 
Throughout  the  long  night,  that  angel  of  light 

Gleamed  forth  as  a  safe  decoy 
To   guide  the  stanch  ship,  through  the   devilish   rip- 

The  dread  of  the  sailor  boy! 
So  the  good  ship  wore  on  till  coming  of  dawn, 

Till  the  storm-king's  strength  was  spent. 
With  the  glorious  sun  of  the  morning  she'd  won, 

And  safe  into  port  she  went! 

— Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


%eaves 

frnm 

fltomorg's   Album 


feturira  frnm  %  Jliiettrai  3SHurkfl 
of  tl|e  Barli  nf  Ear  Slat  and  otfjer 
Eutinrnt  AutljnrB 


Dating 
Sattlrrs'  ttbrartj"  (Collrrlion 

JUrattiirrijiium 
£H.  9.  S. 


THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY 


The  old,  old  story,  ofttimes  told; 

A  lad  on  whom  Dame  Fortune  smiled, 
Stray'd  from  the  honest,  homely  fold 

To  play  the  game  that  lures  the  wild! 
And,  so  he  fell  as  others  fall; 

Twas  theft,  and  forgery  as  well, 
Which  end  in  draughts  of  bitter  gall 

Within  the  dismal  prison  cell! 

The  straight  and  narrow  path  he  knew; 

The  crooked  path  he  knew  as  well; 
The  one  was  paved  with  honor  true, 

The  other  with  the  slag  of  Hell! 
The  narrow  path  seem'd  rather  tame 

In  modern  times  and  business  swirls: 
Fine  clothes  and  gold  made  up  the  game 

Of  revelry — and  jewel'd  girls! 

He  chose  the  pathway  often  trod 

By  them  who  squander'd  wealth  and  soul, 
Y/here,  by  the  wayside  'neath  the  sod 

The  erring  youth  hed  paid  the  toll; 
At  last  the  night-life's  dazzled  train, 

With  liquor,  drug,  and  cigarette, 
Distorted  his  elastic  brain 

And  lured  him  on  and  to  forget; 

Ay,  to  forget  the  span  of  life 

Is  short  whichever  route  wo  take, 
A^d,  from  our  weals  and  woes  and  strife 

Old  Father  Time  his  toll  will  make! 
So,  in  his  gloomy  prison  cell 

He  saw  the  lingering  day  depart; 
And  as  the  shades  of  evening  fell 

He  communed  with  his  callous'd  heart! 

He  sought  to  parry  with  the  Lord 

And  thus   evade   impending  doom; 
But,  false  his  heart  and  false  his  word — 

Yet,  worse  by  far,  the  ghoulish  gloom! 
Within  the  coils  of  legal  might, 

With  thoughts  of  good  alloy 'd  with  wrath, 
He  vision 'd  through  the  sombre  night, 

The  peaceful  ways;  the  tortuous  path! 


Ay,  Satan  gloated  o'er  his  find — 

His  latest  victim  thus  fefrn*  to  see, 
Who'd  cast  a  fortune  to  the  wind 

To   swell  the  clans  of  Deviltry! 
At  last  he  slept;  yet  weird  and  blare 

Were  dreams  to  torment  his  tired  brain; 
It  seems  the  Devil  wouldn't  spare 

The  wretch  he'd  fashion 'd  for  his  gain! 

He  heard  the  plaintive  song — a  mite — 

Rock'd  in  his  cradle  ere  he  slept, 
And  knew  his  mother  through  the  night 

Was   --..ar,  and  anxious  vifgils  kept! 
Ho  saw  a  ghost  in  smock  and  cowl 

Unfurl   the   scroll   of  glittering  lure, 
With    visage   grim    as   e'er   an   owl 

Enmcoh'd   the   bat   in   clutches   sure! 


He  saw  a  girl  with  golden  hair — 

As  shy  and  lithe  as  e'er  gazelle — 
And   rosy  cheeks  uncommon   fair, 

And  sparkling  eyes  that  wove  a  spell 
Of  fascination,  saintly  pure; 

A  priceless  treasure,  ay,  and  yet, 
He  spurn'd  this  flower,  divine,  demure, 

To  mingle  with  the  ribald  set! 


The  race  was  swift,  and  short  the  track; 

The  lights  were  bright,  the  games  were  on ; 
And  once  the  start,  'twas  turn  not  back 

Until  Destruction's  hand  had  won! 
Though  priest  and  sinner  sure  must  die, 

The  world  keeps  turning  in  its  flight; 
The  same  old  stars,  the  same  blue  sky, 

The  same  bright  day,  the  same  dark  night! 

Behold,  Life's  tide  still  ebbs  and  flows, 

As  Nature  plann'd  it  eons  before 
Ye  mortals  knew  the  joys  or  woes 

The  Lord  or  Satan  had  in  store! 
Take  warning  now  and  trim  your  sail; 

A  calm  forecasts  a  coming  storm : 
Your  barque  shall  founder  in  the  gale — 

Unless  she's  trimm'd  in   sailor  form! 

— rard  of  Tar  Pint. 


Xeaves 

from 

f$lem0r\>'B    Album 

dijort  Atones  from  the  Jlortual  EZlurks 
nf  tij?  Sarb  nf  (Tar  JFlat  aui   nthrr 
Eminent 


(Sat Hera'  CibrarB" 


YOU  AND  I 

Can  you  recall  the  days  gone  by, 

When  you  and  I  were  young, 
How  an  old  witch  would  prophesy— 
That  old,  old  story  sprung — 
How  we  would  cross  the  ocean  broad, 

And  sail  o'er  many  seas, 
And  how  the  goodness  of  our  God 

Would  shape  our  destinies; 
And  how  a  maiden  blithe  and  fair— 
And  dimpled  cheeks  withal — 
Would  kisses   give — with  more  to  spare 

When  lovers  timely  call; 
And  how  our  efforts  crowned  with  gold 

Would  surely  come  to  pass? 
Ah,  me,  whilst  mingling  with  the  old, 

Or  mirrored  in  the  glass, 
We  dream  o'er  what  the  Gypsy  said: 

The  gold  hath  turned  to  dross, 
And  that  bewitchin*  little  maid 

Now  masquerades  in  gloss! 
Though  we  have  sailed  o'er  many  seas 

And  dwelt  in  many  climes, 
We're  far  beneath  a  life  of  ease 

And  have  to  guard  our  dimes! 
Now,  in  the  Winter  of  our  life 

We  hustle  in  our  trade; 
We  have  no  angel  of  a  wife, 

No  raiment  tailor-made! 
We  buy  our  hats,  and  shirts,  and  shoes, 

At  any  third-rate  store: 
The  luxuries  we  cannot  choose — 

At  times  it  makes  us  sore! 
We  have  no  maid  of  winsome  ways 

To  brush  our  Sunday  clothes; 
And,  so  in  our  declining  days 

Are  smould'ring  many  woes! 
But  when  there  comes  a  bent  old  man 

With  eyes  that  never  see, 
An  arm  or  leg  left  in  the  van, 

And  deaf  as  deal  can  be, 


A  voiceless  throat;  a  tasteless  tongue; 

Joints  swollen   with  the   gout, 
We  bless  our  stars — while  seventy  young— 
We're  not  so  down  and  outl 
And  when  a  girl  of  tender  years, 

Of  youth  and  beauty  shed, 
Adrift,  to  battle  scorn  and  jeers, 

No  place  to  lay  her  head; 
And  where  in  poverty  there  dwells 

The  aged  grandma  dear, 
We  sort  o'  feel  there  are  some  Hells 

Upon  this  hemisphere  I 
But  when  we  take  that  last  long  trip 

To  reach  the  saintly  fold, 
We'll  find  no  flunkies  there  to  tip; 

No  use  for  yellow  gold! 
Whilst  climbing  up  the  "Golden  Stairs"— 

We  pause  to  look  behind 

We'll  see  our  much  disgruntled  heirs 

A  scrappin*  for  their  find! 
'Tis  when  the  lawyers  grab  their  bit, 

And  simpletons  befog, 
There'll  not  remain  enough  of  it 

To  feed  a  yaller  dog! 
So  I'll  advise  that  ere  you  go 

See  that  your  will's  hard  boiled, 
For  if  you  don't,  up  there  you'll  know 

Your  earthly  hopes  were  foiled: 
And  yet,  the  Lord  to  us  hath  shown 
Throughout  the  long,   long  years, 
Some  mercy,  and,  for  me  I've  known 
More  sunny  smiles  than  tears! 


Thus  recollection  gleams  and  wanes; 

And  for  our  tryst  I'll  say, 
We  have  our  labor  for  our  pains — 

Forever  and  for  aye! 

— Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


Heaves 

from 

ittemnr\>*B    Album 


(5rattarrijJit0ttB  iEtt  Hmi 


to 
fllil  Dear  Sfrirnb 


ECONOMY 

Six  dollars  for  a  week's  hard  work! 

Yet,  this  enormous  wealth 
Ne'er  turned  her  head;  she  wouldn't  shirk- 

'Twas  exercise  for  health! 

She  wore  silk  hose,  and  ostrich  plumes, 

But  shivered  not  a  peg, 
When  gossips  said,  "See  how  she  grooms, 

She  pulls,  the  boss'  leg!" 

And  diamonds,  too,  she  had  galore; 

And  pearls  and  likes  o*  that; 
A  sealskin  coat  that  touched  the  floor; 

A  twenty-dollar  hat. 

Of  finest  silks  her  dresses  were; 

Her  gloves  the  choicest  made; 
Her  little  paws  in  otter  fur — 

•When  out- on  dress-parade. 

Her  wee,  wee  feet,  you  understand, 
Would  cause  your  heart  a  thrill; 

Such  dainty  boots — to  beat  the  band — 
She  wore  through  Winter's  chill! 

And  yet,  her  VIRTUE  ne'er  was  marred; 

Her  slumber -was  sere»e; 
In  dreams  her  conscience  ne'er  was  jarred 

By  what  she'd -heard  or  seen! 

So  on  she  toiled,  this  little  maid, 

And  bought  a  house  and  Idt. 
"Five  dollars  by  the  week,"  she  said, 

Whilst  others  said,  "All  rot." 

Her  cousin  from  the  country  came. 

She  managed  to  afford 
To  entertain  him  all  the  same 

And  pay  his  room  and  board! 


She  dressed  him   fresh  in  latest  style, 

And  kept  him  looking  sleek, 
Because  she  held  her  job  the  while 

And  pulled  down  six  per  week. 

Though  pious  folks  gave  her  the  jilt, 

She  says,  "I  will  not  hoard 
Big  money,   like  a  Vanderbilt, 

Though  by  kirk  folk  ignored." 

The  even  tenor  of  her  ways 
She  fostered,  so  to  speak, 

All  smiles,  all  hopes,  all  joyful  days— 
And  all  on  six  per  week! 

Now,   finally  things   got  so  slow 

This  maid  began  to  feel, 
To  keep  the  pace  well  up,  you  know, 

She'd  buy  an  automobile. 

She  bought  a  "Baby  Steinway,"  too; 

Likewise  a  violin, 
And   briskly   without   more  ado 

She   forged  ahead   to  win! 

She  vocalized   in  MUSIC'S  realm. 

Five  years,  and  there  you  are; 
A  Prima  Donna — priceless  gem 

An  operatic  star! 

Now,   people   recognize  her  charms — 

From  minister  to  churl — 
All  rush  to  grab  her  in  their  arms 

And  kiss  the  dear,   sweet  girl. 

MORAL 

Dear  girls,  this  moral  is  no  freak. 

Be  pure  as  ANGELS,  pray; 
Save  all  you  can  on  six  per  week 

Against  a  rainy  day! 

BILL  SHAKE'S  PEER 


from 


Album 


fcljort  ftlortea  from  fljr  fterttral 
of  lire  Sarft  of  aar  Jlat  ani  olfjer 


Sofjemtan'0  tail 


So 


fHalljrr 


aatlirrs'  Eibrarn"  (Collrrticn 


.  D.  fi. 


THE  BOHEMIANS  LAST  HOLIDAY. 


You  ask  me  what  I  have  to  say: 
"Not  much,  perhaps,  yet,  if  I  may, 
My  EXIT  I  will  talk  about— 
Prelude  to  my  last  'DOWN  AND  OUT.* 


Fair  Youth  stretched  forth  a  tempting  hand 

To  lure  me  with  a  roving  band; 

To  feast  upon  the  joys  and  ills 

And  taste  the  NECTAR  of  its  thrills. 

As  years  passed  idly,  swiftly  by, 

I  lived  on  this  sleek  VANITY; 

While  now  I  pray  the  Lord  to  leaven 

My  virtues  needed  up  in  Heaven. 

The  evils  cast  out  ere  I  die, 

I  trust  with  BEELZEBUB  shall  lie, 

In  payment  of  the  sinful  fee 

Due  "HIS  SATANIC  MAJESTY." 

When  Father  Time,  so  stern  and  sere, 

Deports  me  from  this  hemisphere, 

Don't  call  a  PARSON,  droll,  I  pray, 

On  this,  my  long,  last  holiday, 

To  rant  in  sermon  long  drawn  out, 

Of  him  he  knows  not  much  about; 

Nor,  yet,  a  choir  that's  off  the  pitch 

Or  sings  sad  songs  (no  matter  which) : 

Please  ask  Bill  Smythe  to  talk  awhile: 

His  mellow  voice  and  sunny  smile 

Will  teach  you  as  the  moments  fly, 

Tis  not  a  gruesome  act  to  die. 

Invite  Bess  Clarke  to  sing  and  play 

Her  songs  I've  heard  from  day  to  day. 

I  think  I've  nothing  left  unsaid; 

Then,  tranquil  be  my  pillowed  head. 

Sincerely  plain — though  some  may  scoff — 

Yet,  in  such  manner  call  it  off 

And  leave  me  to  my  final  rest: 

This  is  my  cheerful  last  request. 


In  solemn  rest,  there  as  I  lie, 

I'll  not  regret  your  moistened  eye: 

'Twill  serve  to  blend  with  "Auld-lang-syne" 

And  your  sincere  farewell  in  fine. 

Released  from  worldly  care  and  moil, 

To  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil, 

Is  but  a  passport  from  on  high 

To  peace  through  all  ETERNITY. 

When  NIGHT  in  somber  garb  draws  near, 

And  wraps  her  mantle  round  my  bier, 

She'll  sigh  and  murmer  sweet  and  low, 

"The  Lord  of  Hosts  hath  willed  it  so." 

To  those  in  life  I  pleased  to  greet, 

Remain  and  have  a  bit  to  eat. 

Remember,  boys,  no  mournful  jar: 

Illuminate  a  good  cigar; 

Then,  as  the  puffs  of  smoke  arise 

To  mingle  with  the  clouded  skies, 

I'll  thank  you  from  my  Heavenly  heart 

To  meet  me  thus,  and,  so  depart. 

Serenely,  then,  let  me  abide 

In  my  last  sleep,  close  by  the  side 

Of  some  dear  friend,  whose  faithful  hand 

I'd  grasp    at  GABRIEL'S  sweet  command. 

Upon  my  mound  of  velvet  green, 

Through  s'orm  or  sunshine,  moonlight  sheen, 

May  violets  bloom  and  daisies  nod, 

To  decorate  the  dismal  sod, 

Until  the  final  judgment  day, 

When  LEGIONS  rise  to  clear  the  way 

For  me  to  speak  my  little  piece, 

And  from  the  Lord  get  my  release 

From  bondage  held  by  earthly  ties — 

That  I  may  skim  the  peaceful  skies, 

In  sunshine's  never  ending  time. 

(Don't  spurn  the  tenor  of  my  rhyme.) 

To  give  a  little  talk  like  this 
Doth  seem  to  me  'tis  not  amiss; 
Now,  then,  no  matter  where   I'm  at. 
Revere  my  wish: — Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


Xeaves 

from 

Album 


situru-a  frum  the  JIurtiral 
of  tf|e  Sarb  nf  aar  3Flat  anft  otfjrr 
£minrnt 


(3n  memorg  of  Arthur  iiHarton 
Sattlera'  Cihrary 

Sranarriplton 
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in.  a.  i. 


OLD    FRIENDS 


I'm  thinking  of  the  old  friends, 

Whose  friendship  justly  tried 
We've  never  known  to  waver 

When  drifting  on  the  tide. 
After  long  years  of  absence, 

While  climbing  up  the  hills, 
In  tatters,  hungry,  weary, 

Would  they  still  nurse  our  ills? 

I  long  to  see  the  old  friends, 

The  friends  of  boyhood  days, 
With  whom  I  played  at  marbles 

And  other  childish  lays; 
Recalling  last  words  spoken, 

By  them  who  now  abide 
In  God's  celestial  mansion 

Beyond  the  GREAT  DIVIDE. 

I  love  to  meet  the  old  friends 

In  all  of  LIFE'S  by-ways, 
And  hear  their  wholesome  laughter, 

And  note  their  honest  gaze; 
To  meet  them  at  the  banquet, 

Or  in  the  happy  home; 
How  cheerfully  they  greet  you 

And  say,  "So  glad  you've  come." 

The  portraits  of  my  old  friends 

I  treasure  with  a  care, 
In  memory's  precious  album  ; 

You'll  find  them  ever  there. 
When  Father  Time  shall  call  me 

And  say  "LIFE'S  SPAN  here  ends," 
I"ll  will  this  cherished  album 

To  one  of  these  old  friends. 


When  in  serene  communion 

With  old  fivinds'  pictures  there, 
And  mine  meets  your  attention, 

Pray  give  it  passing  fare. 
My  life  account  please  render 

With  figures  as  they  stood; 
I  hope  you'll  find  a  balance 

To  square  me  to  the  good. 

Lo!  cold  in  death  before  us, 

A  dearest  old  friend  lies; 
A  noble  spirit  vanished, 

To  dwell  beyond  the  skies. 
Why  are  we  lowed  in  sorrow? 

God  hath  but  plucked  a  flower 
For  His  celestial  garden, 

Where  blight  may  never  lower. 

'Tis  meet  that  we  pay  tribute 

To  this  old  friend's  true  worth, 
And  prove  our  heart's  devotion 

Ere  earth  return  to  earth. 
When  TIME  hath  sharped  his  sickle 

And  garnered  every  sheaf, 
We'll  stroll  in  that  dominion 

Where  none  may  know  a  grief. 

Oh !  leave  to  me  the  old  friends, 

Until  DEATH'S  mantle  falls 
And  shuts  out  all  the  daylight 

From  these  old  earthly  walls. 
In  bright  ETERNAL  SUNSHINE 

Ere  long  we'll  all  be  blest — 
\Vhere  old  friends  find  no  trouble — 

Where  wearied  souls  find  rest. 

(Bard  of  Tar  Flat) 

With  reverence:  Arthur's  old-time  friend: 
M.  D.  Hemenway. 


§>tray  IGraura  frum 
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A   little   old  log   cabin.-; 

A  sparkling  mountain  stream; 
Dwelt    there   Swiss    Joe,    a    miner, 

Alone,   to  -toil  and  dream. 
His  mood  was  pure  and  simple; 

His  garb  was  plain  andvrteat ; 
A  truer,  friend,    I'll  wager* 

On   earth   you'd   never  meet! 

His  wood-pile  was^in.  order, 

His   kitchen   spick-span    clean; 
He'd  sure  a  proper  mother, 

A  proper  home,  I  ween. 
His  stew-pan*  pots,  and  spiders 

Shone  like  a  lookin'-glass; 
His  fare  -waa  appetizin' — 

From   roasts  to   apple-sass. 

He  scored  a  thorough  system 

In  all  his  nooks  and-, ways 

Philosophic  exquisite 

Imbibed  in  boyhood  days. 
The  wayfarers  would  tell  you 

His  loss  they'd  much  deplore,- 
No  man  .was  sent  in  hunger 

Away  from  Swiss  Joe's  door  1 

Had  he  a  princely-fortune, 

Or  scanty  fare  in  gold, 
The  .  story;  ne'er   was   written*— 

At  least  'twas  nevjBTtokL 
At  even-tide  how  often, 

In"-  years   of  long  ago,- 
I   strolled   to   that   old   cabin 

To  chat  with  honeat  Joe. 

A  broad  old-fashioned   fire-place — 

A  winter's  evening  dream — 
A   cozy   old   log   cabin, 

Close   by  a   mountain   stream. 
'Twas    fascination    lured    me, 

As  busy  yeara  a-oUed  i>y, 
To  wander  to  that  district 

Where    dwelt  ...Swim.. Joe  -and    I! 


Where  in   the   twilight  hour, 

When    Mystery   cast   a    pall, 
And    every    bud    and    flower 

Was   bound   in   Magic's   thrall, 
Two    turtle    doves    were    cooing 

From  yonder  mountain  pine; 
In   doleful   tones   were   wooing 

In   dreamy   love  divine. 

An  under-growth  now  covert 

The   once   beloved   spot, 
And   nothing  but  a   chimney 

Marks  that  old  cabin  plot  I 
The  ditch   is  all   down-trodden, 

The  dam   is  washed  away, 
The   mill   has  long  since   vanished 

In   weather's   grim   decay. 

And   ne'er  an   old-time   neighbor, 

Nor    voice    in    accents    low, 
To  tell  me  of  the  passing 

Of  my   old   friend  Swiss  Joe! 
Though  dead,   supremely  happy 

1  vow   I'd  ever  be, 
To  know   I'd  shed  life's  mission 

As  square  a  man  as  he! 

This  tale  is  not  a  fiction, 

An  author's   crown   to   seek; 
There    was   a    hermit-miner — 

Swiss  Joe near   by   Else   Creek; 

Not  far  from  old  VOLCANO 

That    reached   her   goal   at   last, 
And    now   the    merest   shadow 

Of  all  her  golden  past. 

Ah,     fondest    Recollection 

Your    taper's    still   aglow. ' 
Doc.    Ives   and   dear    Dave    Boysen — 

My    friends    of    long    ago 

1  think  1  hear  you  calling 

The  trio,   to  insure 
A    joyful    day — full    measure — 

A  night   in   Music's  lure. 

— Bard  of  Tar  Flat. 


ifoatiea 
frnm  memnnj'a  Album 

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'ja  Jiontng 

A  Somanrr  of  ffiazrl  Hamau 


brbinttrb 
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THE   STENOGRAPHER'S   WOOING. 


Hazel  Ramon  meets  a  Laymen 

Going  to  the  fair. 
Hazel  Ramon — to  the  Laymon: 

"Sir,  what  seek  ye  there"? 
Quoth  the  Laymon:  "Hazel  Ramon, 

Seeketh  I  a  bride ; 
Than  thee  no  fairer  lass  may  be; 

Pray,  with  me  abide. 

Come  to  my  wold  and  rule  as  queen, 

With  your  happy  train ; 
Hold  thy  court  in  dainty  revel; 

Mirthful  be  thy  reign. 
Have  your  ark  in  regal  richness, 

On  the  placid  lake; 
Like  a  dream  of  Egypt's  glory, 

When  the  song  birds  wake. 

Have  your  coach — a  gilded  treasure — 

Fashioned  to  thy  will; 
Rare  Arabian  steeds  withal, 

Shall  thy  stables  fill. 
Have  your  hounds,  and  trail  the  hunters 

O'er  the  broad  domain; 
Thus  in  favor,  teach  thy  clansmen 

Loyalty's  acclaim. 

Occidental  days  enhancing 

Health  and  mirth  forsooth; 
Oriental  nights  entrancing 

Vanities  of  youth. 
Halls  of  royal  grandeur  luring 

Noble,  sect  or  clan; 
Malls,  athletic  sports  inuring — 

Proscripting  no  ban." 


Saith  the  Laymon:  "Hazel  Ramon 

Take  my  chests  of  gold; 
Build  thy  palace  in  all  splendor — 

Like  the  Queens  of  old." 
Hazel  Ramon  to  the  Laymon: 

"Hearts  may  ne'er  be  sold; 
Tis  thy  love,  and  not  thy  lucre, 

Takes  me  to  thy  wold." 

Hazel  Ramon  and  the  Laymon 

Sought  the  parish  PRIEST— 
Genial,  v/ise  old  FATHER  DAMON— 

Caught  him  at  his  feast. 
Saith  the  Lamon:  "FATHER  DAMON 

Haste  thee,  tie  the  knot; 
Make  the  charming  Hazel  Ramon 

Mine,  as  well  you  ought." 

FATHER  DAMON,  Hazel  Ramon 

And  the  Laymon — three — 
Then  celebrate  the  wedding  hour 

All  so  merrily. 
Sing  I — like  the  lovelorn  minstrel — 

Sing  my  wistful  lays: 
"Hazel  Ramon  and  thy  Laymon, 

Joyful  be  thy  days." 

"O'er  the  hills,  content,  in  gladness; 

Through  the  Vale  of  Tears; 
Sunshine  tempered  mild  with  sadness 

In  the  long,  long  years; 
Just  a  little  shade  of  sorrow 

All  may  know  so  well: 
Hazel  Ramon  and  her  Laymon 

Thus  may  ever  dwell." 


(Bard  of  Tar  Flat.) 


Copyright— 1913 

by 
M.  D.  Hemenway. 


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I've  a  message  for  you: 

I'll  note  it  with  care; 
'Twill  reach  you  by  wireless 

On  the  waves  of  the  air. 
The  whispering  leaves 

'Neath  the  Moon's  silver  sheen; 
The  most  charmed  spell 

Of  the  twilight  serene; 
The  owls  and  the  bats 

That  are  ever  at  bay, 
Shall  never  reveal 

My  message,  I'll  say. 
Of  your  sweet  dimpled  cheeks, 

My  message  shall  tell: 
Your  wealth  of  brown  hair 

Where  the  violets  dwell; 
The  farm  house  so  quaint, 

With  its  grandfather's  clock, 
And  the  tin  dinner  horn 

That  called  us  from  work; 
The  sleigh-rides,  the  dance, 

The  corn  husking  bee; 
All  pastimes  most  dear, 

In  our  youthful  glee; 
The  old  grammar  school, 

And   the  magical   spell 
Of  the  dear  young  teacher — 

Our  sweet  Isabelle. 
The  same  Isabelle 

As  in  days  of  yore, 
After  long  years  we  meet 

On  a  far  distant  shore. 
My  message  hath  told 

Of  the  days  gone  by; 
The  fond  dreams  of  childhood — 

Thoughts  never  to  die. 
We'll  now  seek  our  fortunes, 

And  build — if  we  will — 
A  nice,  cosy  cot 

Near  the  brow  of  the  hill; 


Dame  Fortune  now  tells  us — 

From  out  of  the  gloom — 
To  woo  and  to  wed 

While  health  is  in  bloom: 
While  the  hillsides  are  green, 

In  the  glad  days  of  Spring; 
While  the  squirrels  may  chirp 

And  the  meadow  larks  sing. 
Now,  to  challenge  I'll  choose — 

It   may  not  come  amiss — 
Where  there's  nothing  to  lose 

In  exchanging  a  kiss, 
Save  a  murmur  or  sigh; 

Then  why  do  we  wait — 
'Till  dimmed  is  our  eye — 

Love's  message  to  state? 
This  age  is  a  maze: 

'Tis  a  buz  and  a  whirl, 
With  its  fads,  and  its  craze, 

To  lay  siege  to  a  girl; 
Now  why  do  we  falter 

And  parley,  I  say, 
'Till  there's  nothing  to  love 

But  a  wrinkled  old  JAY? 
My  message,  don't  tell, 

Don't  let  it  leak  out — 
Lest  your  crispy  old  dad — 

Who  is  down  with  the  gout — 
Might  put  himself  wise, 

(Our  crooning  would  cease), 
And  with  war  in  his  eyes 

He'd  speak  his  pert  piece. 
Well,  this  is  my  message! 

At  twelve,  or  before, 
I'll  wait  for  your  answer, 

Upon  the  sixth  floor; 
With  my  ear  near  the  lattice 

I'll  listen  with  care; 
And  take  it  by  wireless 
From  the  waves  of  the  air. 


(Bard  of  Tar  Flat.) 


ohloqup 


-ff~        — ~v 


,  (Caltfornta 


I  just  dropped  in  to  grasp  your  hand, 
And  say  good  health  and  cheer. 

I  trust  the  joys  you've  erstwhile  planned 
May  thrive  the  present  year. 

Another  year  is  hushed  in  sleep— 
Eternal  sleep  serene — 

Yet,  this  old  earth  hath  scores  of  mirth, 
For  you  and  me,  I  ween. 

I'm  glad  to  note  vast  sheaves  of  wheat, 

From  acres  wisely  tilled; 
Thy  coffer  chest — thy  needs  to  meet — 

With  shekels  amply  filled. 

Though  ye  possess  broad  lands  and  gold, 

Don't  part  with  over  fare. 
Remember,  CHARITY  is  cold— 

"OLD  AGE"  shall  claim  a  share. 

Don't  take  each  stranger  chance  may  send 

In  PARSON'S  plain  attire, 
Unto  thy  heart  so  like  a  friend 

That  meets  thy  fond  desire. 

But  lo !  I  would  not  have  thee  spurn 

The  stranger  poorly  clad; 
Give  him  a  chance  thy  grace  to  earn; 

Ay,  save  him  from  the  bad. 


Ofttimcs  a  heart  as  true  as  thine 
When  lured  to  SATAN'S  way; 

But  for  one  chance  as  thine,  in  fine, 
Would  be  thy  peer  this  day. 

Ye  shall  not  read  the  outcast  heart; 

Its  scroll  is  most  obscure. 
A  stubborn  shield  protects  some  part 

Where  grief  can  long  endure. 

Yet,  once  that  shield  is  turned  aside, 
And  love  hath  conquered  there, 

In  SUNSHINE  may  ye  both  abide, 
Free  from  suspicion'i  snare. 

To  live  thus  freed  from  care  and  strife, 

In  harmony  and  love; 
The  greatest  boon  to  mortal  life: 

True  blessings  from  above. 

Thus   may   I   reach  my  journey's  end, 
And,  when  life's  skein  is  spun, 

I  trust  my  epitaph,  dear  friend, 
Thou'lt  scribe,  and  say,  "WELL  DONE. 

Then  from  my  home  beyond  the  sky, 

I'll  see  that  tablet  where 
The  throng  may  scan  whilst  passing  by, 

Thy  tribute  graven  there. 

*   * 

P.  S.— 

My  postscript  here  may  well  attend, 

Acknowledging   sincere, 
Thy  greeting  as  an  old-time  friend, 

FIDELITY,  how  dear. 

(Bard  of  Tar  Flat) 


Copyright,  March,  1913, 

by 
M.  D.  Hemenway. 


YA  n 

U   C  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


592141 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


